(Taken from my 2013 Archive and translated with translation machine. May or may not be accurate from real history and fictional stories, and I'm too lazy to rewrite)
[1st Particle - Alexander Alexandrovich's Funeral]
1942
For the first time, tears fell from the eyes of the Alexandrov men—and not merely a drop or two; each of them repeatedly wiped away tears with a damp white handkerchief. The women bearing the same surname wept just as profusely. They shed these tears within the cathedral, standing not far from a priest who could only stand motionless, unsure of what to do other than gaze at the fully sealed coffin awaiting burial. The other guests, relatives and dignitaries close to the Alexandrov family had already left the cathedral to wait at the burial site.
Alexandrov himself had been unable to hold his head high for the past two days. He walked with a faltering gait, following the carriage transporting the coffin to the burial ground prepared by the government. Boris, Vladimir, and their wives and children followed close behind Alexandrov and Lyudmila. Alexandrov could not bring himself to utter the words; it was as if the prayer had slipped from his memory. His heart still refused to accept the news of the death he had received via telegram a week earlier.
The funeral service was a lengthy affair. Finally, the interment took place; the coffin was lowered into the grave amidst a shower of flowers cast by all those present. Gradually, the coffin was covered by a mound of earth, upon which a headstone was placed, bearing the family name, first name, and the dates of birth and death. Some people left immediately after scattering flowers, while others approached the family members to offer their condolences. However, the only ones remaining at the grave half an hour later were the Alexandrovs themselves. Tears continued to stream down the women's faces, while the men had stopped weeping, choosing instead to gaze somberly at the headstone.
"Let's go back," Alexandrov said, turning away from the grave. He approached Yuri, who was still touching the headstone with a bewildered look.
"Papa, is my big brother sleeping here?" Yuri asked.
"That's right, my dear Yura. Your big brother is sleeping here now," Alexandrov replied with a faint smile, trying to appear strong before his youngest child.
"He'll wake up later, right?" Yuri asked again, his eyes wide with hope. Alexandrov sighed, realizing that his youngest was now three years old and had begun asking questions typical of a toddler.
"Of course he'll wake up."
"Tomorrow, Papa?"
"I don't know. How about we wait for him at home?" Alexandrov suggested, trying to divert Yuri, who was now clinging to the headstone and refusing to leave. Eventually, Yuri nodded in agreement and allowed his father to carry him home. Boris and Vladimir looked away, unable to bear the sight of the moment; their innocent youngest brother did not yet know that Alexander, their Sashka, had been asleep forever since the war.
***
[2nd Particle - Alexandrov's Death Scene But With Version of His Death in Czech Instead Near Reichstag]
8 July 1945
On a quiet night at the hotel where he was staying for a concert in the Czech lands, Alexandrov sat engrossed, leafing through a collection of scores; the opening page bore the inscription "Beethoven's Symphony No. 9." He had studied the score before traveling to the Czech lands, and the experience had inspired him to create an adaptation of that magnificent symphony for performance in Berlin. He hummed the melody, experimenting with a version transposed to a lower key, and prepared to commit his ideas to musical notation. Occasionally, Alexandrov furrowed his brow, imagining the wheezing sound of the accordion and picturing how the tenor and bass-baritone voices would blend and complement one another. The chirping of crickets filled the modest hotel room, causing Alexandrov to pause his thoughts now and then to listen to their song. He smiled; the sound soothed his spirit.
"It hardly feels like eighteen years have passed since then..." Alexandrov murmured. His argument with Voroshilov had truly changed the course of his life. He had come to fully embrace his role as the leader of the Alexandrov Ensemble, even though, at times, he still harbored a wish to have led the choir at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour—a cathedral razed to the ground on the orders of Vozhd himself, back when Alexandrov’s own family in Moscow was still serving there. But such is life, Alexandrov reflected. He remained grateful that he and those closest to him—both his family and the members of the ensemble—could celebrate the October Revolution together in 1945, even as he mourned the many members who had fallen in the war and could not join the festivities.
The white-haired man rose from his wooden chair and picked up the score, reading it as he paced back and forth across the room. Unexpectedly, a crushing tightness gripped his chest the moment he took his first step. He pressed his right hand against his chest, trying to suppress the pain, but it offered no relief; instead, his heart began to pound even more violently. Alexandrov collapsed, the symphony score slipping from his left hand as it, too, moved to clutch his agonizing chest. Cold sweat poured down him; the pain was so intense that he curled into a ball. His vision blurred—his glasses had fallen off during the fall—leaving him unable to locate the door. His throat constricted, rendering him unable to even call for help.
A beam of light streamed in through the hotel window, growing steadily brighter until Alexandrov’s field of vision was consumed by a blinding white. Then, a young man approached him, dressed in a brown suit and a black tie. He realized that the smiling figure was the person he had longed for over the past four years—and now, that person was extending a hand toward the composer.
"Sashka..."
***
[3rd Particle - Alexandrov Mentored Boris For The First Time, May Clashed with "Khor" and "Orkestry"]
1935
"Borya, you remember what Papa said yesterday, right?"
"Of course, Papa."
"Good. Now, let's practice. Watch my movements, listen to how the choir sings, and distinguish between the human voices and the sound of the trumpets." Standing tall, Alexandrov immediately stepped out of his office to begin his son's first training session. Boris followed close behind, his expression betraying a hint of anxiety about whether he was truly capable of living up to his father's words. They arrived at the rehearsal hall, where members of the choir, orchestra, and dance troupe were already waiting for Alexandrov. Boris could feel many eyes fixed on him with curiosity, as this was the first time he was 'joining' them.
When he glanced at his father, the older man pointed to a brown chair—the same kind occupied by the choir members. Alexandrov maintained his usual demeanor, showing Boris no special treatment whatsoever. In fact, he had Boris seated deliberately among the choir and orchestra members, placing him on the same level as them. Boris chose to comply; he believed he had to start from the bottom before he could ever become like his father.
"Good morning, Eagles!" Alexandrov greeted them with an enthusiastic smile.
"Good morning, Comrade Alexandrov!" Boris and the ensemble members replied in unison.
"A combined rehearsal, as usual. We begin with the song Borodino!" Alexandrov raised his favorite baton and moved it fluidly. Simultaneously, the domra struck three sharp notes before the choir and the rest of the instruments joined in. Boris planted his feet firmly, pressed his hands against his knees, and furrowed his brow, listening intently to every sound emerging from the instruments. Yes, that was his task for the day: to learn the compositions his father conducted, preparing for the time when he would eventually take his father's place. Boris had done this before during university exams, and his previous work as a conductor had trained him to know exactly which sounds needed to be heard at any given moment.
He could easily perceive his father’s compositions, yet the resulting sound was deeply moving. Whether due to the ingrained influence of the cathedral or simply his own personal taste. Without realizing it, he found himself listening more closely to the accordion than to the double bass Stepan was playing. Boris furrowed his brow, struggling to focus.