They walked down a flight of wooden stairs and into a large windowless room where the lights came on automatically when the door opened. The walls were lined with varying depths of shelves with labelled files. In the centre was a huge wooden table where documents were spread out next to a green-painted metal box. It was crushed along one side and where the paint had chipped off, the underneath was rusty.
Simos Georgatos joined them. He turned to the receptionist. ‘Efcharistó. That will be all.’ He nodded at Eléni. ‘Kaliméra, Thespína Beynon. I was being a bit presumptuous expecting you to be able to come here at the time I suggested. You could have had other arrangements, but I’m very pleased you are here.’
This was a different man from the sober, stuffy one she’d first met a week ago. His eyes sparkled as he led her to the table.
‘I’ve made a breakthrough and I couldn’t wait to tell you. Take a seat.’
Eléni’s heart raced.
‘A census was taken in 1951 and held centrally. Although census records are not available to the public, as an archivist, I was given permission to view them.’
He picked up one of the documents and placed it between them. ‘This is a photocopy of the census record we need. Because you had part of the address in Byron Street, I looked at all the names of the people living there in the 1951 census, searching for a family of four adults. If you were three in 1953, there should be a baby listed too.’
Eléni followed Simos’s finger as he traced down the list of handwritten words. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Here, look at number twenty-five.Andreas Spyros Mouzakis, age twenty-seven.’
‘What does that mean?’ Eléni pointed at the document.
‘Head of household.’
Eléni gasped.‘Dimitra Maria Mouzakis, wife, age twenty-six. Theodore Kostas Koulouris, age fifty-eight. Iôánna Pelagia Koulouris, age fifty-seven.’
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She placed her hands over her eyes.Koulouris. The same surname as the man who was searching for her.
‘Eléni, are you all right? This must be so hard for you. We can stop to give you time to take it all in, but just let me read the last entry for number twenty-five.Iôánna Eléni Mouzakis, age three.’
Eléni opened her eyes to see for herself. ‘So the newspaper cutting was right! If it is me, I was five at the time of the earthquake, not three, and my namewasIôánna not Eléni.’
She wanted to hug Simos Georgatos, but stopped herself. He was just doing the job he had trained for. But he did it for her.
Simos placed an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. ‘I’m so pleased for you!’ Immediately, he sprang away from her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was unforgiveable! So unprofessional.’
‘It’s fine. You seem almost as excited as I am.’ Eléni placed her hand on his arm. He didn’t pull it away.
Simos looked directly at her with tears forming in his eyes.
‘Perhaps I should have told you. I survived the earthquake like you. My family was all killed too. I’ll tell you about it at another time. But I was shipped away from the island to a religious orphanage run by nuns in Patras. I didn’t realise how much I’d bottled up over all these years until I started working on your case. I’m sorry about this.’ His voice cracked. ‘The orphanage was awful. If we cried for our parents, we got beaten. The way to survive was to become hard ourselves and pretend we did not care.’
‘Oh, Simos.’ She thought of how happy her childhood had been with her parents. ‘If you’ll let me, can we forget about you being professional and we just become fellow survivors? I think you need what we call in Wales a bigcwtch.’Before he could object, she hugged him. The tears that had threatened trickled down his cheeks. Eléni didn’t say a word. Ignoring his embarrassment, she just held him.
‘Sorry about that.’ Simos brushed his cheeks with the back of his hand. Pulling over the metal box, he clicked open the locks on either side that were positioned underneath the lid. ‘If anything was found in the rubble, it was collected and labelled with details of where it was found. This box was found in Byron Street. It looks as if it was some sort of safe with important documents and keepsakes in. No one ever claimed it. When I started here, I found it pushed to the back of a cupboard and labelled with other finds from the street.’
He opened the lid. The box was full of paper documents and various items.
‘I think some of this stuff is going to be of real interest to you. Take a look.’
Eléni’s hands shook as she lifted out a buff-coloured folder. It was speckled with age and smelled musty. ‘Is this a marriage certificate?’ She read each column.
‘Yes, if you look it has the same names as the census. Your parents, Andreas and Dimitra, were married here in Argostoli and the certificate lists what they did for a living. Your mother was a lacemaker and your father was an artist.’
Eléni gasps. ‘I’ve followed my father, then. That’s what I do, too. I thought it was because I had to use drawing as a means of communication when I couldn’t speak. But is it possible to inherit a skill?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps my father was curious about the past like me.’ He laughed, then his expression became serious. ‘I’ll probably never know... But look at the name of one of the witnesses.’
Eléni read it aloud. ‘Kostas Koulouris, the same name as my grandfather. It’s got to be my uncle.’ It all fitted. She had a true identity.
‘This is your birth certificate.Iôánna Eléni Mouzakis. Born thirtieth of July, 1948. Weight 2.49 kilos.You were tiny!’
