FINALLY A FAMILY

Ruth Pate finally got to hold her twin sons for the first time -- 45 years after they were born. Thorsten and Claus Shultz came from Germany to meet their mom, who until recently had no idea they existed.

The Falcon woman was told the twins were stillborn at birth in 1959 in her native Germany.

In fact, they were adopted by a German family.

"I was in a German home for bad girls," said Pate, who then was Ruth Wuttke, an unwed teen.

She went on with her life. She married an American serviceman, had two children, Mary Anne and Donald Jr., and moved to Colorado Springs in 1971.

Pate never questioned the lie the doctors and her father told about her twins' deaths, nor did she hide her past from her family.

She said she "always got melancholy in May," the twins' birth month.

She was startled when a Berlin missing persons agency contacted her last year with the news the twins were looking for her.

Mother and sons since have been in constant contact, sharing words and pictures, but that doesn't lessen the emotion shared face-to- face.

The twins arrived Saturday in Colorado Springs, accompanied by a German TV crew shooting a five-part documentary about happy reunions.

Even members of the film crew teared up as the sons hugged the woman they had all but given up on finding.

"I had to cry. It is the most unbelievable case," said German producer Marian Kiss.

The TV crew is staying a few more days. The twins are staying three weeks.

"I'm still numb, but it's nice," Pate said Sunday in her Falcon living room. "Once in awhile I pinch them, and they kind of look at me."

She patted Claus on the head. In response, he covered her hand with his and smiled. Two of Pate's little dogs sprawled on his lap as if he had lived there for years.

Pate's husband, Donald Sr., joked about becoming a father again -- at 83.

"We are all happy these two guys are here," he said.

For Thorsten and Claus, the search started 35 years ago after finding a birth certificate while riffling through their parents' stuff.

"When we snoop, we find this paper and wonder what this name Ruth Wuttke means," Thorsten said.

When confronted, their parents admitted the boys were adopted. "Before, they tell us nothing about it," Thorsten said.

They grew up in the same region where Pate lived.

Pate said her pregnancy was deemed a disgrace, and her father made her go to the "bad girls" home, even though she was 18, worked as a cook and lived on her own. She planned to keep her babies, not put them up for adoption.

She had no reason for doubt when told the twins were stillborn.

"I never held them, I never saw them. I was very sick. I was not allowed to get out of bed. Stillborn means dead. I had to deal with that. All I remember was signing a whole bunch of papers," she said.

"I had to think of two male names, Robert and Roberto. It was supposed to be for the funeral, for their records."

She turns to Claus, a bachelor motorcycle mechanic who speaks little English.

"He looks like a Bob to me."

To Thorsten: "He kind of looks like a Rob."

That is as far as it goes. She honors their given names.

"The parents who adopted them gave them that name, and I respect that. Thorsten is the god of thunder, and Claus, well, we can think of Santa Claus," she said. "I wouldn't take that away from them. I am grateful they didn't get separated. I am glad they were nosy."

Thorsten, a coffee factory worker, led the search to find Pate, but gave up after years of dead ends.

His wife, Suzanne, encouraged him to try one more time with a Berlin agency she saw on TV.

Pate dismissed it as a crank call when a woman from the agency said her son was looking for her.

"I said, 'My son is here. I don't have a son in Germany.' She said, 'Yes you do.' I said, 'Look lady, I don't have anybody in Germany. A long time ago I had twins, but they were stillborn. Stillborn means deceased.' I was angry that somebody was trying to pull a stunt on me."

The caller persisted. "She said, 'He has been looking for you for a long, long time.' "

Minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Thorsten.

"He said, 'I know you are my mom.' I just went to pieces."

She was skeptical until he sent her the birth certificate listing her maiden name.

Nothing can replace the 45 years they were apart.

All she has of their childhoods is a stack of black and white pictures, showing boys in school uniforms, smiling shyly for the camera.

Sure, she feels cheated, but she tries to focus on the future.

"I have a life with them now," she said.

CONTACT THE WRITER: 636-0253 or abrown@gazette.com

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