Page 46 of The Silent Sister

The next day, Eléni visited the museum again. She was pleased to see it was Kyrios Petrakis sitting behind the desk in the foyer again.

‘ Kaliméra, Thespína Beynon. What can I help you with today?’

‘ Kaliméra , Kyrios Petrakis. I want to find out as much as I can about my family. Like I told you yesterday, my parents and grandparents were killed in the earthquake, but I want to know if I have any other relatives who survived. An uncle, maybe. Where would I go to find this, parakaló ?’

The man picked up his pen and began to write down a name and address on the pad of paper on his desk.

‘I think I know just the man. You will need to go to the archives department, which is behind this building. Obviously, there are many gaps in the records now before 1953, but you should ask for this person.’ He handed her the sheet of paper.

‘Simos Georgatos. He is in charge of the Archives Department and is making a name for himself with people like yourself searching for lost relatives. He’s a young man, but already his reputation is very well respected. ’

This was the first step in Eléni’s search.

‘Efcharistó, Kyrios Petrakis. You have been very helpful again.’

The office was easy to find. She’d noticed the blue-and-white Greek flag flying on top of the roof. Eléni entered and asked the receptionist if she would be able to see Simos Georgatos.

‘I’m afraid he’s not here today. May I ask what it’s about and I will get him to contact you?’ said the young woman.

‘Yes. I understand he could be the person to help me trace a relative who may have survived the earthquake.’

The woman smiled and handed Eléni a notepad and pen. ‘Kyrios Georgatos is always very busy. So many people are searching. Even after twenty years they search. Please write your name and address here.’

Eléni did as she was asked, hoping it wouldn’t be too long before the archivist contacted her. All she could do was wait. She walked down to the taverna on the quayside to sketch out some plans for more pen-and-ink drawings.

When Eléni arrived back at the hotel later, there was a message waiting for her.

‘Ah, Thespína Beynon. Kyrios Georgatos called to say he was sorry to have missed you this morning, but he is back at his office now and will be there all afternoon if you’d like to see him today.’

Eléni’s heart raced. From what the man at the museum had told her, if anyone was going to help her find her uncle, Simos Georgatos would be the person to do so.

‘ Efcharistó . That is good news.’

She left the hotel and hurried along to the archive office. The streets were quieter now as most of the shops had closed for lunch. She ignored the growling in her stomach — right now. Seeing the archivist was more important than eating. Soon she was entering the cool interior of the building.

‘I’m here to see Kyrios Georgatos. He is expecting me. Eléni Beynon,’ she told the woman behind the desk in the entrance hall.

The woman smiled and picked up the phone. ‘Kyrios Simos. There is a young lady here to see you. She says you are expecting her. Eléni Beynon.’

After replacing the telephone on its stand, the woman looked up at Eléni. ‘He’s coming down now. He won’t be long.’

Eléni thanked her and wandered to the side wall to look at a display of pre-1953 photographs displayed there.

How different the town looked now. Gone were the beautiful, elegant, tall buildings, labelled as Venetian in style.

The town her mother remembered was gone.

Eléni’s thoughts were interrupted by a mellow, cultured voice.

‘Thespína Beynon?’

She turned and her heart skipped a beat. Facing her was a young man immaculately dressed in a crisp white linen shirt and navy slacks. He held out his hand to introduce himself.

‘Gerasimos Georgatos. Everyone calls me Simos.’

His hand was warm and smooth. Electricity fizzed throughout her body.

‘Eléni Beynon. Eléni.’

He smiled as if it was expected of him, but he remained aloof.

‘Would you like to come to my office and you can tell me how I may help you?’

They walked up the staircase to the first floor, where his office overlooked the street below. Large picture windows ensured the room was filled with natural light.

Eléni explained her situation and handed him the name of the street of her former home.

‘I know it’s been renamed, but I would like to know anything you can tell me about my family who lived there. You see, I was the sole survivor. Rather than let me be taken into an orphanage, I was brought up by a couple who took me back to Wales. They say they did it to give me a better life.’

Simos Georgatos stiffened. ‘And they were right,’ he said under his breath, frowning.

‘Sorry?’

‘Ignore me. Please go on.’

‘They kept everything a secret. I wouldn’t have known they weren’t my real parents if I hadn’t found my mother’s old journal.

In it was a newspaper cutting about a man who had been looking for his niece who had survived the earthquake and been taken off the island without permission.

The little girl looked like me as a child, but her name was not Eléni and she was older than me. ’

The young archivist leaned forward. ‘And you’d like me to help you find him?

Do you have his name?’ His voice was now animated.

‘After the disaster split so many families I do this all the time, but your story fascinates me. If this uncle still exists and lives in Kefalonia, I’m sure I can help you. ’

Eléni’s eyes misted with tears. She’d feared he would shut down her hopes and say this was impossible, but perhaps this man could help her find out her true identity. He listened.

‘ Efcharistó . The name in the newspaper was Kostas Koulouris.’

The young man made a note of this.

‘Why don’t you leave it with me for a few days and I will do some research?

In the office here, all the records are post-1953 apart from a few things they were able to retrieve from the rubble.

To be honest, many of those were items rather than documents, so I’m not holding out much hope for those.

The other thing is that Koulouris is a very common name here, so perhaps it’s not good to build your hopes up.

’ He stood and shook her hand. ‘But I will try. I lived through the earthquake, too. In fact, my dissertation at university was about the 1953 earthquake and its effect on the Ionian islands afterwards.’

After thanking him, Eléni left the building feeling excited that Simos Georgatos was going to take on her case.

She found the nearest taverna and ordered herself a simple lunch of a Greek salad drizzled with olive oil and a large slice of kreatopita , the famous Kefalonian three-meat pie she’d seen on all the taverna menus.

She didn’t have to wait long before the dishes arrived.

The steaming phyllo pastry pie was delicious, full of meats, rice, cheese and spices.

‘I’ll definitely have that again.’ Eléni laughed when the waiter came to take away her empty plate.

‘Here, it is the best kreatopita in the whole of Argostoli. You must come again. Anything else?’

‘ Nai . I’ll have a beer, efcharistó.’ She rarely drank at home, but here on the island she’d found an ice-cold beer was always very refreshing.

She left the taverna and instead of strolling down to the quayside as she had been in the habit of doing, she walked in the opposite direction and found a park surrounded by cypress trees on one side.

Large areas of the garden were filled with flowering bushes of pink oleander.

Finding a wooden bench in the shade, she sat for a while and wondered if this was the park she’d read about in one of the books borrowed from Porth Gwyn Library.

It was large enough to be the one where the town’s homeless had erected temporary shelters after the earthquake.

She looked on her map and found Maitland Square.

That was where the Red Cross had erected its large grey bell tents to act as hospital wards and treatments rooms. Somewhere there she’d been looked after and her injuries attended to.

When pressed for information, her mother had told her the details.

No wonder both her parents had been worried about her similar injuries after the car accident.

It was here they’d found out she couldn’t speak when she’d regained consciousness.

She took out her sketchbook and recorded what was in front of her.

A metal structure stood in the centre. A circle of steps led up to a space reminding her of the bandstand back home.

Before leaving the park, she wandered over to a plaque and read a dedication to all the people of Argostoli who had lost their lives in 1953.