By Barry Vitcov
The violin, a deep walnut color burnished by decades of tender care, had not been played in two years. It wasn’t a rare instrument; it was a cherished one rescued from the Holocaust by Clara’s great-uncle and given to her by her grandfather on her thirteenth birthday.
Clara treasured the violin through high school and college. She played with several string chamber groups until her grandfather’s death when she honored him with an exquisite version of the theme from “Schindler’s List” before gently placing the violin in his grave and tossing in a handful of soil witnessed by astonished grievers.
“(I write because) I’m retired. What else is there to do!” – the writer