The holiday season is upon us and with it comes the opportunity to see the San Francisco Ballet’s stunning production of The Nutcracker. When I see the television ads for it, I think back to the local ballet school I attended as a child in Germany. We put on The Nutcracker every year. Not that I had much talent. My mother, who attended Tanzschule Bier, a feeder school to the prestigious Wiesbaden Ballet in Germany, was the real ballerina. She danced with Tanzschule Bier as a young girl, before World War II destroyed everything.

In my novel, The Still Voice, the main character Sophia dances in The Nutcracker. Afterward, her mother Brigitte and sister Petra join her backstage. I thought I’d share that scene from the book today, in keeping with the season.

Tanzschule Bier prided itself on its Nutcracker ballet. Preparation for the Christmas holiday favorite began with new choreography, exacting rehearsals, and embellishment to an already lavish set. Sophia had practiced nonstop over the past three months and arrived at the studio well prepared for their one December opening.

The Biers were in a dither. Herr Bier had choreographed The Nutcracker’s “Waltz of the Snowflakes” for four girls. His wife had rehearsed it that way. This afternoon, hours before their opening performance, the lead snowflake had called in sick.

Thrust into first position, Sophia was full of confidence with one breath and tremulous with the next. While the couple revised the choreography for a trio of girls, she warmed up for the evening’s recital. When the new arrangement was in place, the wife led them through the steps until she was satisfied.

After Frau Bier had gone, Sophia ran through the routine alone. Clad in her practice leotard, her hair pulled back in a chignon, she imagined herself as delicate as the bone china cups in the Hettlage store window.

“Five, six, seven, eight.” She slowed to count out a difficult step, watching her feet in the mirror as they swept deliberately across the hardwood floor. When she had it, she resumed dancing to the phrases flitting through her head, then started for the dressing room.

On her way, she stopped to peek through the curtain. The house was starting to fill up. Unable to spot her family in the commotion, she closed the curtain and left to put on her makeup.

She was dabbing on blush when a gasp from the audience told her the performance had begun. She smiled at the reaction. Local craftsmen had carved a sumptuous and colorful set for the opening Christmas Eve scene. The company had hoped it would delight.

Sophia rocked her shoulders in time to the merry overture. When the downbeat for the march sounded, she hummed along: “Tum tata tum tum tum tum tum . . . tum tata tum tum tum tum tum . . . la da, la da, la da da . . .”

“Soph . . .”

Fellow snowflakes Steffi and Monika, the Biers’ daughter, appeared at her elbow. Could she go through the new steps with them one more time?

They rehearsed until the “Departure of the Guests,” then changed into their stiff, silver-and-white tutus. Monika helped Sophia pin her tiara in place. Then, hands and backs arched, they waited in the wings for their music.

Like wind-driven flurries, the trio whirled downstage. Oversized, tinseled flakes shimmered from above, reflecting the blues and purples of the spotlights. Fluffy theater snow swirled beneath their feet.

Sophia tilted forward on her right foot, on pointe, while extending her right arm upward. She stretched her left leg and left arm behind her. In this, the arabesque position, her body created a long, fluid line.

Using her arms for momentum, she executed a series of pirouettes. She was careful to focus, stage right, on one spot—and to snap her head quickly back to the spot as she completed each turn—so as not to become dizzy.

She spiraled and twirled in time to the music, weaving in and out of patterns with the onstage ensemble, like a splinter of ice in flight.

A subtle change in tempo brought out the principal dancers. The snowflakes guided them offstage to the Kingdom of Sweets. The curtain came down behind the players. Sophia was breathlessly in heaven.

When the second act began, she was beguiled by Tchaikovsky’s music for the “Arabian Dance” and his soaring composition for the “Waltz of Flowers.” Enthralled, she watched the performance from backstage.

When the last strains of the “Sugar Plum Fairy” pas de deux (dance for two) had dissipated, Sophia hurried onstage with the rest of the company. She held hands with the corps, blinked in the lights, and bowed. There were four curtain calls, flowers for the prima ballerina, and a standing ovation.

Sophia thought of the great companies of Europe, which often included youngsters. The famous Fanny Elssler was twelve when she became a professional. Marie Sallé debuted in London at age nine. There were the three “Baby Ballerinas” of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, who’d reached stardom at the ages of thirteen through fifteen. Dared she hope to be in their company?

She was changing in the dressing room when the ballet mistress came in, followed by Brigitte and Petra.

“The performance was just beautiful,” gushed Petra. “The dancers. The costumes. The sets. Of course, the music is always wonderful.”

“You were so graceful,” said Brigitte. “My daughter, the ballerina.”

“There were several who were exceptional,” said Frau Bier, diplomatically. “But,” she said in a half-whisper, “Sophia is one I will recommend to the Wiesbaden Ballet.”

“Oh, wow,” beamed Sophia.

“Don’t get a swelled head,” said her mama. “You still have to help me clean house on Saturday.”