Two Cities , One Home
Dulwich College Beijing , Li , Michael - 10
O n the crowded railway platform of Vladivostok , Russia , two twins stood hand in hand , gazing into the hazy distance . It was the year 1918 , the height of the Russian revolution . At dawn , they were woken by the steady rattling of gunfire . Their parents — the only people who could tell them apart — sent them away for fear of their safety .
The incoming train ground to a stop , jolting the twins back to reality . Reality , the cruel , callous , coldhearted world around them . They were jostled into the train ’ s open door as the morning wind howled around them . The rhythmic bumping of the train rocked them to sleep , and they awoke to a speaker blaring over the din : “ This is the Shanghai Station .”
They disembarked , wandering aimlessly until they sat down on the side of a main road . One of them held a sign : “ We are homeless children from Russia . I am Stanislas , and my twin brother is Vanya . Please take us in . God will be gracious to you .” They were both blonde , wearing ragged clothes . Their faces were grimy with dirt .
A fallen leaf whistled past them . They huddled together , lost and alone .
When they woke up , the two brothers , Vanya and Stanislas , would be in two completely different worlds , each not knowing what happened to the other .
***
“ Master Vanya , your breakfast is waiting for you downstairs . I will leave the menu here .” The submissive voice of my butler drifts into my half-asleep mind . I eye the menu ; although its exquisite handwriting displays lavish delicacies , even the daintiest dishes taste the same to me now . Wearily rolling out of my feather bed , I stagger into my overly-perfumed shower . You may think this is luxury , but luxury soon becomes routine .
As I get dressed , I stare wistfully at the crowd of carefree children outside , shouting and running freely . How I wish I could be one of them . “ Master Vanya , which books would you like me to pack for your trip to Nanking ? Remember your father has an important meeting there .”
But he isn ’ t my real father — he was only the one who found me and took me in . I have heard this story many times already , for my parents love to tell it to the guests .
“ We were travelling home from a monk who claimed to have the power of bestowing children to couples , when we saw a small , ragged figure sitting on the side of the road .” Here he often ruffled my hair , “ We promptly concluded that this was the very child who had been given to us . And now , he with us , in the ZuJie ”
But I have never told them about my earliest memories . The honk of a train , the warmth of another hand , the pulse of a heart beating along with mine …
A familiar voice , loud and gravelly , pierces my vivid dreams of warmth and food .
***
“ Stanislas , get up and start your chores ! Grab a bun and get to work !” My uncle yanks me from the pile of rags I sleep on . Rubbing my eyes wearily , I snap back to reality , the poor dusty ghetto bathed by the dawn light .
Although I have become a rickshaw driver , I still work in the house . Feeding the chickens , I stare longingly at the massive crimson compound – the ZuJie – towering above our little village . A high wall separates us from them , the uneducated from the educated , the hungry from the full , the poor from the rich .