Anatoly's mother waits for her son's messages with the quiet, stubborn hope only a mother can have. In the space between one phone call and the next, war enters the house through silences, small gestures, and the unbearable weight of what everyone already knows.
On 9th September 1943, my grandparents faced fear, hope, and loss in the midst of war. This is their story, told through the memories of that day.
The story of a broken gramophone and a piece of stolen land. A personal account of my family's legacy, caught between fascist violence and the calculated greed of those who wore the banner of anti-fascism for personal gain.