Welcome back everyone! First off, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who entered a story! I had a lot of fun reading every narrative, and so it was a tough decision as to who would win.

Without further ado, the winner is (drumroll, please!!) Sofia!

An ‘Appassionata’ Awakening

I’m not good at following rules. I’m only good at playing piano and maybe a few other things that I can’t really name at the moment due to their insignificance. That’s why on December 17, 2020, I accidentally summoned Beethoven’s spirit to earth.

* * *

December 17, 2020

I stroll down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, occasionally glancing at road signs or the storm clouds threatening to turn the current drizzle into a downpour before I make it to the metro. Wind begins to blow hard, causing the trees lining the streets to sway and rustle. I’m crossing the road just as there’s a crack of thunder and the rain comes pouring down. I curse under my breath and run to the other side, music-filled satchel bouncing on my hip as I hurry into the nearest building, which happens to be the Beethoven-Haus. The lobby is full of people, so I make my way through them to a less-crowded corner of the room to wait out the storm.

“Hello, how can I help you?” I whirl to find an older man standing behind the museum’s counter bearing a name tag that says “Johann.”

“Oh, um, sorry, I was just getting out of the rain.” My words are marked by a flash of light that silhouettes Bonn’s tall steepled cathedrals and is closely followed by a deafening roar. Although…

The rain doesn’t look like it’s planning on stopping anytime soon, and this is the Beethoven-Haus. Also, I’m going back home to Munich tomorrow, so I might not have a chance to see learn this much about my favorite composer for a while—like actually learn, not just try to find stuff on the internet that may-or-may-not be accurate.

“How much is it?” I ask Johann.

“Seven euros,” he answers.

I reach into my pocket, grasping my spare change and count out the fee. “Here,” I say, handing it to him.

Johann takes it. “Enjoy the museum.”

I send my mom a quick text to let her know where I am, then start down one of the halls.

I wander through the rooms, admiring the faded original manuscripts and violins and—

Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks. There, right in front of me, is a piano. Beethoven’s piano, of course. Five instead of the standard two to three pedals spread from the base, and it’s made of gorgeous warm-toned wood. It’s somewhat angular, and not too fancy, but it’s the most beautiful piano I’ve ever seen.
And I have to play it. I just have to. I don’t know why, but I do. Well, actually, yes, I do know why—because a) it’s Beethoven’s piano and b) nobody’s played it in several decades, if not a century or two.

I glance around. There’s nobody in the room—or in the next one, or the one after that. Almost like… I should play it. Like I’m meant to play it.
Don’t be absurd, Alena, I chastise myself. That’s an extremely illogical and rather self-absorbed way of interpreting the situation.

But I can’t shake the desire to play that piano, even though I can see the ‘Delicate—Please Do Not Play’ sign displayed clearly on the lid, so I set my bag on the floor and sit down on the bench. It’s at the perfect height. I place my fingertips on the ivory keys, and a chill runs through my hands, up my arms, down my spine to my legs and feet and up to my head. My thoughts clear and I let out a breath, wrists straightening but remaining flexible, and I roll my shoulders back, releasing any tension in them. My shoe finds the pedal, though I don’t know which one it is, or, frankly, how it works—what effect it creates. I realize I don’t even have a specific piece in mind, so I decide play a D-flat and an E in my right hand and a G and a B-flat in my left all together a few times in rhythm, marking the beginning of the third movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Number Twenty-Three, Opus Fifty-Seven—the ‘Appassionata.’

As I play the opening chord, my concentration shuts out everything around me and leaves me with nothing but the sheer determination and willpower amplified by the piece. As the sonata takes shape, I become a part of it and the piano, though still stay separate at the same time. It’s me and my playing, me and the piano, me and the piece, weaving my rigor and strength into it’s complex fabric and into the instrument, which turns my emotions into music.

Someone runs into the room, saying something, but I barely notice them, though my finger slips from a D-flat to a D-natural—which isn’t entirely incorrect, because in the autograph edition Beethoven writes D-natural, so no one really know which is right. I keep playing, keep weaving the musical tapestry, ending with a perfectly executed energetic coda. I stand, and barely have time to notice the crowd applauding and feel incredibly embarrassed about severely violating the museum’s don’t-play-the-delicate-antique-piano rule before a large, tall man strides forward, clapping heartily.

“Bravo, bravo!” He booms. “Excellent! Though I notice you played the D-natural, which is incorrect. Entirely the fault of the publisher—the confounded dimwits messed up the autograph—however, you performance was incredible.” He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “So incredible, in fact, that you have caused my spirit to come down to earth and materialize into a solid form.” The man sticks out a hand. “Ludwig van Beethoven. Pleasure to meet you.”

I gawk at him. This dude is clearly a psycho, for two reasons: one, because he thinks he’s Beethoven’s, like, living ghost or something, and two, because he’s wearing a tailcoat and a top hat that’s straight out of the 1700-maybe-1800s—sorry, I’m bad with fashion history. Also, he has a wild, mad-genius look in his blue eyes, though it’s not nearly as wild as his hair, which is whitish-gray and fluffed out Albert Einstein-style.

“Um, pleasure to meet you too, though I’m afraid I can’t extend a hand—I’m allergic to strangers,” I say, eyes darting around as I grab my bag off the floor. Several people watching us exchange glances and leave the area.
Psycho Guy laughs, though nothing high-pitched and screechy like you’d expect from a sociopath, but warm and rather sane-sounding.

“What is going on here?” I turn to find Johann making his way through the crowd. “Fräulein, that piano was not to be played! And Herr—unless I am much mistaken, you did not pay entry,” the overwhelmed museum man barks.
At this, Psycho Guy straightens. “Excuse me, Herr Johann, but I did not know I was required to pay a fee to enter my birthplace.”
Johann grunts and raises his eyebrows. “Your birthplace? Who do you think you are?”

Psycho Guy looks Johann in the eye, and the poor museum clerk shrinks away from him. The remaining people mutter among themselves and then quickly turn to go explore other parts of the museum. “I am Ludwig van Beethoven, and I do not think I am anyone but myself.”

At his words I feel a shiver go down my spine. That is such a Beethoven-like thing to say that an almost non-existent part of me wants to believe that this strange man really is Beethoven’s ‘solidified spirit’ or whatever he’d said.
ALENA. Quit being irrational, my mind snarls.

“Beethoven?” Johann rages. “He lived hundreds of years ago! That’s impossible, and I think you’re mad!”

“I never stated that I was alive!” Psycho Guy roars. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something to do, and frankly I’m sick of your presence. Nobody bothered me this much when I was dead, you know.”

As the men finish arguing, I take the opportunity to scoop up my bag and escape. I slip out of the room, and, feeling guilty, leave the rest of my spare change on Johann’s desk, then push through the front doors. I find that the storm has stopped, and take a breath of fresh air and petrichor. I stand there for a moment, marshaling my chaotic thoughts, then start walking.
I hear heavy footfalls behind me, and the closing of a door. I move to the right to allow whoever it is to stroll by.

“Fräulein!” a familiar-ish deep voice calls.

I freeze, and consider my options. I’m almost to the end of the Bonngasse, and then I only have to cross the Oxfordstraße to get to the Bertha-Von-Suttner-Plazt and catch the metro to the hotel. If I run—

But I’m also curious, because strange things like this have happened to me before.

Like when I played a nocturne at the Frédéric Chopin Airport in Warsaw and someone who looked like Chopin’s, like, twin or something waved at me, complemented my playing and thanked me, then turned and vanished. Or when I played in Leipzig’s Schumann-Haus and found a woman who looked exactly like Clara Schumann in a beyond-old-fashioned dress clapping in the crowd. She later came up and thanked me, then disappeared, just like Chopin.

I turn around to face Psycho Guy. “Uh, hi. How can I help you?” I nearly laugh at myself for sounding like some kind of customer service lady.

He chuckles, apparently finding my reply ridiculous as well, then turns serious. “Fräulein, I’d like to properly introduce myself. I am Ludwig van Beethoven—”
“You said that already, when we were at the museum,” I cut in. “I’m Alena, FYI.”
He looks quizzically at me. “What is the meaning of FYI?”
“‘For your information,” I supply. “Also, you claim to be Beethoven’s spirit or ghost or whatever. Can you prove it?”

Maybe-Beethoven/Psycho Guy snorts. “Young people. Never trust a person’s word.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Well guess what, this is the twenty-first century, and us modern people have learned that taking a person’s word for something is usually a bad idea.”

“I cannot prove it. You’re going to have to take my word for it,” Maybe-Beethoven says flatly, frowning. “Fräulein—”

“Fine. I believe you, only because I think this has happened before. Also, it’s Alena, not Fräulein,” I correct.

Maybe-Beethoven raises his eyebrows. “You’ve summoned other composers before? So I assume you know that when they express their gratitude, they are released from their living forms and retreat to the heavens?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t know that, but it makes sense now that you mention it—they always disappeared when they thanked me—like, right into thin air. And I think so—if I did it was Chopin and Clara Schumann,” I say. Beethoven (I decide to just believe him—for now) is silent for a moment. “So, are you going to… you know. Thank me and skedaddle?”

A couple fancy new cars drive by, and Beethoven watches them with distrust and amazement. He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I’d like to see this modern world,” he says finally. “I’d like to see what else has changed.”
“Everything has changed,” I inform him. “And if you’re going to do that, you might want to, you know, blend in a bit more. As in, making up a pseudonym so people don’t think you’re a weirdo every time you insist that you’re Beethoven, and maybe getting some new clothing.”

“Ah. Like the strange garments you and those fellows across the street are wearing,” he says disdainfully. “Not very elegant, least of all fashionable. I think I’ll keep my top hat and coat, if you don’t mind.”

I shrug. “Well, um, enjoy the—wait.” An evil grin spreads across my face. “Have you ever seen a cell phone?”

“Cell phone? What is that?”

Still grinning, I pull out my phone and tap the screen. It turn onto reveal the usual stuff—a picture of me with my cat standing on my face, and the time and date.

Beethoven jumps back with a yell. “What the devil is that?” he exclaims.
“An iPhone,” I explain simply. “You can use it to look stuff up, like this—” I open Safari and type ‘Beethoven’ into the browser, and a few paintings and images of the composer, plus the usual Wikipedia summary appear on the screen.
“How did they procure all that information?” Beethoven demands when I scroll through Wikipedia’s written documentation of his life.
“Because you died and they found your stuff?” I leave Safari. “You can also play music with this.”

The composer grunts with disbelief. “With that? It’s hardy an instrument.”
“Yeah, but now we have this thing called Spotify and it’s pretty great,” I say, opening the app and turning on some heavy metal. Screaming—sorry, singing—voices, pounding drums, and screeching guitars fill the air.

“That is NOT music!” Beethoven bellows, covering his ears.

I laugh and turn it off. “Most music these days shouldn’t count as music,” I sigh.

I check the time before putting my phone away. Five-twenty-seven.

“I should go,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you to, Alena,” Beethoven replies, a kind smile spreading on his face as he recovers from the ‘music’. “When I finished wandering the city, I’ll come find you so that I may be released.”

“Uh, how are you going to do that?” I ask.

Beethoven winks. “We living spirits have our ways.”

* * *

“MOM!” I shout. “I’M HOME!”

My mom rushes out of the kitchen followed by the scent of bratwurst and sauerkraut. She wraps me in a hug. “Alena, what took you so long?”

“The storm,” I say.

She asks me a billion questions—‘How was your day?’ ‘Did you have a good lesson with Ms. Jana?’ ‘Have you started ‘Fantasie-Impromptu yet?’—as she finished dinner and I set the table.

We sit down to eat, still conversing, when there’s a knock at the door. My mom stands up to get it.

“Hello, are you Alena’s mother?” Beethoven asks.

My mom looks suspiciously at him. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

I walk over, and Beethoven catches my eye. “I am Ludwig van Beethoven, and I wanted to congratulate your daughter on her captivating performance today at the Beethoven-Haus.”

“Alena! You didn’t tell me you were going to perform at the Beethoven-Haus!” My mother scolds.

“It wasn’t planned,” I reply sheepishly, looking at the floor.

Beethoven chuckles. “Whether it was planned or not, it was magnificent,” he says. “Fräulein—”

“Alena,” I correct.

“Alena,” Beethoven amends, “thank you for keeping the spirit of classical music alive. I trust that we shall meet again.”

And with that, he disappears.

About The Author:

Sofia is a 13 year old writer with a passion for classical piano. Or maybe it’s the other way around—classical pianist with a passion for writing. Eh, same thing.