Luthier Hill looked up at us from furrowed brows. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What?” asked my dad, curious.

“This is an 1800s German violin. Neuner and Hornsteiner. Delicate. Would probably be worth triple if it didn't play so softly. It’s made for a young soloist - can't compete in an orchestra."

At nine years old, my concept of the 19th century was hazy at best. But the idea that a long line of children, likely my age, had played sweet, quiet notes to themselves over the course of two world wars fascinated me. 

Had they also found comfort in this friend whose life as a tree, then an intricately carved violin, was as long and rich with history as theirs?  

Perhaps.

Gwenyth Wilbur, the luthier that had made the boisterous, fiery red creation I now play had been gifted the abandoned ¾ violin in the hopes that it could be brought back to life. It had sustained a crack down the middle of its back sometime during World War II. Someone had donated it to an unnamed school in Nova Scotia, where it sat gathering dust until around 2012. 

Given her talent, she was able give it a second wind.

I would later research its origin: Mittenwald, in the newly minted and rapidly industrializing nation of Germany. Tucked into the base of the Swiss Alps was a place where violin making was as natural as breathing.

 In this 19th century Bavarian town lived Neuner and Hornsteiner, violin makers who had partnered up and built a legacy that would stretch far beyond their quiet mountain village. Made with warm-toned varnish, tonal integrity, carefully selected spruce and maple, and soft, graceful curves, their violins quickly became well-known.

By 1880, the two had become fixtures in Mittenwald’s lutherie scene. Though their shop produced many instruments with the help of other local makers, there was a consistency to their work; something rooted in tradition and care. Even their ‘student’ violins were crafted with a kind of reverence for sound. Clear. Balanced.

 How many ears have since been comforted by its song? How many hands learned to play on its small, unassuming fingerboard? Truly, this nostalgic violin born in the Isar Valley will always have my heart.