“My childhood friends had long since drifted away. And my colleagues? They avoided me, perhaps afraid that whatever had happened to me might be contagious.”

“And then I met Tremon Philippe. At the time, I didn’t know what he was. I only knew that he was a highly respected teacher. And that he said he could bring my music back.

“Tremon said that, with his help, I could once again perform. That I would once again hear applause—more than I had ever heard before.

“In return, all he required was my soul.

“I didn’t need applause … but to once again play music? And all it would cost was my soul? No one seemed interested in that part of me, anyway. So I agreed.

“And so Tremon handed me this bow. I touched it, and the pain in my hand was gone.”

To Leave Your Soul Onstage

West Berlin in February is woefully cold and gray.

But you don’t notice. Not only because you’ve been taken care of so well by your hosts, but because inside you are on fire.

For this moment is finally here.

After years of injury, years of pain, you, Shizuka Satomi, are about to return to the stage.

Tonight, you are rested. Ready. The Berliner Philharmonie, itself reborn after the firebombings of World War II, still feels eager and young. You smell fresh rosin, harmonizing with the gathering scents of cigarettes and perfumes. Outside, you hear the rustle and chatter of your audience—it is a packed house, waiting for you, just as Tremon Philippe had promised. Practices have gone well. Just as Tremon Philippe has promised, there has not been the slightest twinge in your hand.

Ironic isn’t it? That you could only save your music by giving up your soul?

No matter. You are here.

For your return, you will open with a piece that you’ve performed only twice before. It is a difficult, complicated piece written by a dying man.

But despite its history, to you it feels vital, hopeful, even proud, as it reaches outward, somewhere past this little existence.

Yes, one might be expecting Mozart or Brahms—but this piece says so much of what you have been feeling. It is special to you.

And you will make it special for those who listen, as well.

Still, your heartbeat seems to flutter, flail, as if grasping for something to fear, to doubt.

Maybe you haven’t practiced enough? Maybe you should have chosen to open with Mozart—everyone loves Mozart. Or since we’re in Germany, maybe Schumann? Mendelssohn?

No.

Tremon says don’t worry. Your days of being misunderstood are over. Your days of being talked over, ignored, blamed are over.

For once onstage, Tremon says, the bow shall do its work. No matter what, the bow will ensure that you will never be forgotten again.

Trust yourself. Trust your violin. Trust Tremon.