What happened next remains uncertain. One version says that relatives and their daughters dug their graves before getting shot—buried in a mass grave still waiting to be discovered. Another account suggests they were deported to Treblinka and never returned. Either way, this photograph is the last image of the great-aunts I never had the chance to meet.

Last night’s tribute was more than fitting. It was a reminder that the arts don’t flourish without stewards—those who believe, quietly and persistently, in the transformative power of culture and community. Joe Erdman is one of them. And we’re all the better for it.

When I first started researching George Frederick Bristow, I expected the usual: a 19th-century American composer influenced mostly by European traditions. And sure enough, Bristow fits that mold—born in Brooklyn in 1825, the son of an English-born violinist, passionate about creating a national musical identity.