The Thirty Year Hunt

“It’s twins! Both girls! Perfect, tiny, precious baby girls!” my wife, Carol yelled in excitement as she put the phone down. “C’mon Pete, let’s hop over there and have a drink and take a peep at our first grandchildren.” We did. Sirens were shattering the air, bombs were falling, people were running and screaming on the streets, but we weaved our way through the bodies, ruins and potholes until we reached our daughter’s apartment. It had taken an hour to travel 2 miles.

We raced up two flights of stairs and banged on the door. Our son in law opened, looking exhausted. “Sorry for the way I look. We’ve been up since last night. A twenty-four-hour labor. But it’s over now. Jill is fine and your grand-daughters are sleeping. Come and look.”

We followed him into the small room and stared at the tiny babies wrapped up tight. We were overjoyed. We kept on visiting. Week after week. Month after month. The war swirled and raged around us, but we were safe. Our babies were safe. And we were overjoyed at our new status in life.

The babies were named Penny and Jackie. We loved them and they loved us back. They smiled at us when we arrived and cried when we left. We watched them at bath-time. We helped feed them. We remembered how to change the diapers. We laughed at the strange birthmark behind Penny’s knee. We knew that all our lives could end at any second. All it needed was a bomb that laid the building flat on the ground. But we were blessed; it never happened. From the windows we sometimes saw people being shot and killed in the street. But not us. And not little Penny, Jackie, and their parents.

When the twins turned a year old we went to take them presents, their first dolls. It was a subdued party. Two small cakes. Two candles. Two ‘Happy Birthday’ songs. Two kisses and we ran out. This part of town was dangerous. At home we locked the door and turned on the radio, searching for good news.

The phone rang at ten that evening. Between the sobs and cries we understood that it was our children’s neighbor. “They came. They smashed the door. They took your children. Penny and Jackie are safe. They are with us.” We were stunned. We debated: should we go and take them now? Or wait until the morning? After some discussion and not knowing what to do, we decided to wait. On a grey and wet morning we drove over. The building was a shambles. We raced up the steps and stood at the top looking at the opening where the door had been. Then we turned to look at the neighbor’s apartment. Their door was smashed. Their apartment was empty, ransacked. No one and no baby girls. We started running from door to door. Not one entrance door remained. All had been reduced to small piles of wood on the floor. We cried.

The war went on for another two years. We cried for our children and we cried for little Penny and Jackie and mourned their short lives.

The war came to an end and reconstruction started. My wife and I reopened our store and worked long, hard hours to get our lives back on the rails. The years passed slowly, our thoughts and our feet dragging along with memories of the old days. We succeeded and our balance at the bank grew steadily. We weren’t rich, but we were comfortable. We decided to sell the business and take things easy. We were both in our seventies and retirement sounded good. Penny and Jackie were always there, one year old and smiling at us. Time is supposed to heal but it never does.  

A year after we walked out of the store for the last time we decided to take a holiday.

“I fancy a cruise,” said my wife excitedly. “We will relax on the deck. We will eat in the restaurants. There’s entertainment every evening. We’ll just lie back and do nothing. Is that a great idea or what?” We made the booking for the next month and looked forward to our first real break from work and worry.

At the port the organization was stunning. The boat was huge. The cabin was great! The food was gourmet and the wine flowed like water. We loved it. “Let’s do this every year!” exclaimed my wife on the third day. I agreed. It was a dream. No shopping required. No cooking, no washing dishes. No praying that the washing machine would start and behave as it was designed to do.

On the third evening we decided to eat in the Chinese restaurant. We were greeted by the hostess, a tall, pretty, young woman dressed in a turquoise silk dress. “You are Chinese?” I asked.

“Don’t be rude, Peter!” said my wife digging me in the ribs.  

The hostess laughed and said, “No Sir, I am not Chinese, but I think we both come from the same country, judging by our accents. We all laughed as she led us to a table. During dinner I looked at her more than once and she smiled back at me.

“She could be one of our granddaughters,” I said. “She could easily be. About the right age. Same accent. Same coloring as our daughter. I wonder…”

“Forget it, Pete. Let’s enjoy dinner.”

We did.

After we left the restaurant and said goodnight to the hostess, we walked out onto the deck. It was a warm evening and there were many couples strolling around and enjoying the calm atmosphere.

Back inside Carol saw the sign ‘To the Gift Shop’.

“Let’s go look, Pete.”

The shop was crowded with passengers looking, exclaiming, and buying. We ended up at the beachwear counter eyeing tee shirts and sandals. An assistant strolled over.

“Can I help you?”

I looked up and there was our hostess from the restaurant. But not dressed in turquoise silk. She now wore a creamy material outfit.

“You changed outfits quickly,” I said.

She looked puzzled for a moment.

“Oh, you mean I… That’s my sister,” she laughed, with the same accent. “How was the dinner?”

I stood frozen. She has a sister? A twin sister?

I couldn’t contain myself. “The hostess in the Chinese restaurant is your twin sister?”

“We are identical twins, Sir. We both look the same. We both sound the same. We even have the same handwriting.”

“And you both have the same beautiful smiles,” I added.

She laughed.

“And the same laughs!”

And then I couldn’t help it. “What are your names?” I asked the question as gently as I could and braced myself for her answer.

She stared at me and for a moment I wondered if I had overdone the questions.

“I am Patricia and my young sister is Jenny.”

I knew it! Patricia and Jenny. Penny and Jackie. Whoever had found them or adopted them had used the same first letters of their names.

“Were those your birth names?”

“It’s a long and complicated story. We were born during the war. Our parents were taken away and we were found abandoned by someone who handed us over to the local police. We were finally adopted by a couple who renamed us…”

“I know who you are,” I stammered. “You are our granddaughters! Are you Penny or Jackie?”

Her mouth fell open and she gaped at me. “Wait here! I’m calling Jenny!”

Carol and I stood stunned. Unable to speak, tears welling in our eyes as we watched a thirty-year dream come to life!

We see our granddaughters often these days. They are beautiful and intelligent women who have traveled the world, searching for us as we had searched for them.