It was 1928, so I was thirteen years old.
My father didn't want to take the Fascist Party card, so our shop had been already wrecked twice by the gangs of Black Shirt hooligans. We were also receiving more and more explicit personal threats.
Once Carlo came home tattered and trampled on: his schoolmates had beaten him up because he dared to say that he thought the fascists were swine.
So my father decided to sell up and emigrate with the family to France. I was happy. I thought that changing home, friends and everything I would probably be able to resolve my secret problem. I was the only one who was happy, so I realised it was better not to show it to my family.
We moved to a small house in the centre of Bayeux. One of my father's cousins was living not far away in Caen; he managed to get my Dad taken on in a clothing factory there. For the first few months I was so engrossed with the novelty of the place and the difficulty of the language that I forgot my problem for a while. Moreover, I didn't know anyone. Carlo, myself and Enza took intensive courses, because in order to be able to enrol in the public schools, we had to demonstrate that we could understand, speak and write reasonably well in French.
Our teacher was an old spinster who knew a little Italian. She lived in a house that seemed like a museum to me, full of old things and with a curious, but not unpleasant smell. The old lady often gave us cakes that she'd baked. She was a strange character but likeable, and she started to like us too, especially my little sister Enza.
It was thanks to her that, little by little, our family became accepted by the locals, "even though" we were Italians... A change took place when the news broke that General Nobile's airship Italia had been wrecked at the North Pole. Many people came to say how sorry they were... just as if Nobile was a relative!
In September Dad enrolled us in the school and there we made our first friends amongst our schoolmates. Carlo was also starting to court some of the local girls. He had a crush on a seventeen-year-old girl covered in freckles called Chantal. Carlo was a nice boy and he made quite an impression on the young French girls. As for me, despite being fourteen, I was in the same class as the thirteen-year-olds, apart from a few children of my age repeating the year. I remember that the only one of us to be called by her Italian name was Enza: I became André and my brother, Charles.
Bayeux has a less mild climate than my beautiful Siena, but I felt at home there. There were woods all around, and the sea not so far away. About sixty miles off was the wonderful Abbey of Mont Saint Michel; to my way of thinking at least, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
During a pilgrimage to the Abbey organized by our parish church, I first met an eighteen-year-old boy called Michel. Like the Abbey, he was really beautiful, but more than that, very friendly. During the whole trip he kept the party cheerful: children or adults, he seemed to be everybody's friend.
He was in the same school as Carlo, in Caen, but in a different class. He lived near the Bayeux parish church, only a short walk from my home, but this was the first time we had ever met.
Michel soon realized that I was a little left out of the group. Immediately he took care of me and in a short time made me feel comfortable and at home. Not only did he introduce me to everybody, but he talked to me often or simply winked at me from a distance, so I didn't feel left out. When we were in the Abbey he explained everything to me better than a professional tourist guide. He had been there several times and he knew every corner and detail of the Abbey. At the picnic he offered me half his cake.
Well, to cut a long story short, we became friends; and since he was held in high regard by the parish priest, my family looked favourably on our friendship.
So Michel often came to our house, or I went to his. He also started to help me with my schoolwork, explaining what I didn't understand and filling in the cultural gaps for me. I held Michel in great admiration and was deeply grateful for his friendship.
One day I was at his home and, as often happened, we were alone; Michel was showing me some illustrations in his "Encyclopédie des Colonies Françaises". They depicted various native tribes living in a state of total nudity.
Commenting on a full-frontal picture of three completely naked young warriors, he remarked: "These people really are civilized. They're not ashamed of nature, of their bodies. And sex is a simpler thing in their country, not full of taboos like it is here!"
In recent months I had experienced a kind of waning of my desires and my sexual instincts. I masturbated no more than once a month, and I had neither the opportunity nor the desire to try anything with my friends. But seeing those three splendid examples of naked young manhood awoke a slight sensation in me. I'm sure that was just what Michel had been hoping, and he realised his intentions had succeeded.
"Aren't they gorgeous?" he asked in a neutral tone.
"Yes..."
"Just look at these..." he said, opening the Encyclopédie at another page.
I saw five young males from another tribe, also completely bare, and two of them were close together, one with his arm on the other's shoulder, their cheeks almost brushing, and they were smiling.
Michel pointed to those two: "Look at these two, here, they're friends... intimate friends, I mean. It's not that unusual, over there, for couples like that to form."
I understood perfectly well what he meant but instinctively, I pretended not to understand.
He explained to me: "They are lovers. They make love together and aren't ashamed if others notice or know about their relationship. There was something similar in Ancient Greece too. In those days love between males was even regarded as something very beautiful."
I had never heard anything like this before, so I told him it seemed incredible to me. Then he took down a book and read me some passages by Plato, proving that what he had said was true. I was amazed and interested, and I was also physically aroused. Carried away with what he was saying, Michel put his arm round my shoulders and pulled me slightly towards him, then caressed me on the cheek and confessed that he felt strongly attracted to me. I felt terribly mixed up, but excited and happy. I didn't react, but neither did I evade his gentle embrace. Michel held me tighter to him and caressed me with growing tenderness. Then he kissed me, first on my forehead, then on my eyes, and finally on my lips. I quivered. He started to caress my chest, my sides, my shoulders through my clothes.
When I had had my adventures with my friends in Siena there were never any preliminaries or tenderness, we were always got straight down to the sex. I had never experienced the sweetness, the tenderness, the beauty of that kind of closeness, and so I didn't immediately connect it with sex. It was really pleasurable and I gave myself up to his kisses, to his caresses, and because Michel didn't go too far, his caresses did not become more intimate. On the contrary, when he noticed that I was deeply troubled and aroused, he gradually stopped.
Then he whispered to me: "You know, André, that you are my best friend?"
"Honestly?" I asked, half unbelieving, half happy, but moved.
"Yes, honestly. I am so happy with you and I hope our friendship can become stronger and more and more beautiful..."
"Me too, Michel..."
Nothing more happened that time. But from then on, whenever we were alone Michel embraced and caressed me, held me against him in an increasingly intimate way, in such an imperceptible crescendo that the idea never struck me that we were doing something wrong, forbidden, sinful. For that reason, not only did I let myself go during those so sweet moments of growing intimacy, but also I started to desire them. Michel whispered me sweet words on those occasions that accompanied me like music, all day long
He would call me: "My sweet friend", "My dear, delicious André", "My only, wonderful, beloved boy" and so on with growing affection.
So when one afternoon while I was in his arms I felt his erection press against me through our clothes, and when for the first time his hand went down to feel and to bring me to full arousal, I felt nothing strange, nothing bad, but instead I let him do it, being prey to a vague sense of happiness and gratitude.
This new way of caressing and feeling me, of kissing me more intimately, continued too for several days without going any further.
One day I rang his doorbell and the door opened without my being able to see him. I entered, the door closed again and I found him there beside me, naked with just a narrow towel around his hips.
"André, my friend! I've just had my bath and I thought I'd have time to dress before you arrived... Sorry..."
"Don't worry..." I replied, looking at him with genuine delight.
Then he embraced me right there, standing in the hall, he kissed and caressed me. Then he steered me towards the living room and pushed me to the sofa where we sat, still clasped in our embrace. It was the first time I had been able to see Michel's body, to feel it beneath my hands without clothes in the way. I caressed him as I was accustomed to doing, but feeling now a new kind of emotion, more intense, more beautiful than ever. The towel had slipped away, so when I caressed him between his legs as I had before, I felt his member tremble and become turgid, warm in my hand. It was like a shock. I pulled my hand away as if burned and blushed violently, deeply troubled.
Interrupting the intimate kiss he was giving me, he murmured: "No, please, continue, my sweet friend. It's so wonderful to finally feel your hands on my bare skin... Please..."
At that, I timidly caressed him again, there. Michel caressed me in a more intimate way and started to undress me.
"What are you doing?" I asked in a choked voice, terribly confused.
"You know very well... I desire you... let me seduce you, please. Be my friend, my boy, my loved one! Don't you want to?"
Something in me whispered a timid no, but my voice answered with emotion: "Of course, yes... I want that..."
Michel then undressed me with feverish but delicate hands and I soon caught his excitement too. In a moment I was lying on the sofa without a single stitch of clothing, and I felt Michel's beautiful body on mine.
God, how wonderful that contact was! He continued to explore me, to brush his body against mine, his stomach on mine, his chest on mine almost as if to identify with me His mouth locked onto mine and his hands held mine, our fingers tightly intertwined. I was overwhelmed. How beautiful his smile was, how sweet his weight upon me, how pleasurable the sensations I was experiencing with Michel, with my Michel! My, my Michel, my strong and great and good friend... His kisses were fresh as spring-water, his hands on my body as warm as the sun's rays.
So we celebrated our first intercourse, in a way sweeter than I had ever imagined possible.
We met on other occasions and each time was just as magnificent.
But then the day came for Confession.
The priest asked me if I masturbated and I answered yes. He said it was a bad sin and asked me to avoid it. I nodded. But then he asked me if I did it with friends as well, and again I answered yes. He said that was a horrible thing to do, and I must promise him never to do it again, and I must keep away from those kinds of friends. I didn't answer, and he pressed me. I didn't answer because I was asking myself if I would ever be able to renounce Michel. No! I really could not renounce my beloved, my love. Moreover I could see nothing horrible in our relationship, on the contrary, it seemed to me really beautiful and right.
So, quietly but firmly I answered: "No. That is a promise I cannot make."
The priest became furious. He threatened me with eternal damnation, he abused me, but faced with my repeated "No, I can't", he said in that case he couldn't give me absolution, and so I wouldn't be able to receive the sacrament until I renounced my sinful life. I left the confessional very shocked, but more resolved than ever not to renounce my Michel.
The next day, Sunday, I didn't take communion. My father asked me why, and I answered that, without thinking, I had eaten something just before Mass. But then I saw Michel approach the altar and take communion as usual. I felt stunned and afraid: had he perhaps renounced me? Had he yielded to the priest's threats? What had happened?
I barely held back my tears.
In the afternoon Michel came round to my house but, not being alone, I couldn't tell him what was worrying me. He was as joyful and extrovert as ever, and that just made my fear and confusion grow. I, on the other hand, was gloomy and tense, though I tried not to show it. Michel suggested going for a ride on our bicycles. When we were out of the town, in the woods, I signalled to him to stop.
"Tired already?" he asked me, surprised, but with a smile.
"No. I have to talk to you."
So I told him about my confession, about my concern and I asked him, almost accusingly, how he was able to receive communion.
He smiled: "But, André, I never confess that sort of thing, I only confess my sins. What does he, the priest, care about my private life?"
"But what we do is a sin, how can you not confess it?" I asked.
"And who says it is a sin? Priests? How can it be a sin to love each other and to prove it to each other? And another thing, tell me why they do it too? You know who was the first to teach me about sex, when I was thirteen? It was the parish priest himself. Not this one we have now, the one before. Now he's parish priest at Notre Dame, in Paris, so a very important priest. He was perfectly well aware of what we were doing in his bed, but he still celebrated Mass and took communion, and gave me communion. So?"
I was confused. But the result was that I continued to make love with my Michel. And the following Sunday I went to church with my family as usual and took communion as usual. But not long afterwards I was scared and thought I would die suddenly at any moment, because I had committed a sacrilege. I spent horrible days and the only moments of comfort were the meetings with Michel: in his arms I could forget everything.
At last one day he took me and thus I become totally 'his' and I was happy. I ceased to pray or go to confession; I still went to Mass and took communion, just to avoid problems with my family.
A period of my life began that was almost happy. I say 'almost' because a certain unease lingered in the background, every Sunday during Mass. But I suppressed that feeling and continued along my chosen path, because deep inside me I felt it was the right one. Michel helped me in that, with the love that expressed itself in our secret encounters, always very beautiful and sweet. A kind of complicity formed between us that made us feel incredibly close. We developed a whole system of secret signals, of communication signs imperceptible to others, so that we could understand each other and exchange messages even in presence of strangers. We went for long walks and chats: we loved being together, sometimes in silence too.
One day, in the woods, I asked Michel if he still made love with other people too.
He stared at me amazed, then seemed hurt: "How can you think such a thing? I have you and that's enough to me. I'm not interested in other people any more."
I felt happy, a more intense happiness than I had ever felt before. Then I asked him: "But... before meeting me, had you been with many other boys?"
"Well, a few: three or four."
"And why didn't you stay with any of them?"
Again, he looked at me amazed: "It's quite simple. I was never in love with anyone before."
"But then, with me... are you in love with me?"
"Of course I am! Don't you know it?"
"You never said it to me..."
"I thought I had demonstrated it to you. But of course I am in love with you, André. I wish I could tell everybody I love you, that you are my boyfriend, and could embrace and kiss you in front of everybody..."
Oh, how much those words filled me with joy and pride! "Me too, Michel, I love you too. And I'm happy to be your boy and that you are mine. I wish I was grown up so we could live with you. Wouldn't you like to live together?"
"Of course, my sweet friend, of course. It would be splendid." he answered embracing me tight.
We kissed and begun to caress, forgetting everything, utterly absorbed in our love... when we heard a noise. We separated hastily and saw the postman approaching on his bicycle: had he seen us? We waited, our blood frozen in our veins. He went past us, greeting us with a casual nod as if nothing had happened.
As soon as he was gone, I asked Michel: "Did he see us...?"
"Probably not..."
"But what if he did?" I insisted, worried.
"I don't know. He might tell our families..."
"And then they will... prevent us from seeing each other?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But I don't want that! Michel, I don't want to lose you!"
"Me neither. We'll deny it. All he could have seen is me holding you tight, and we can say we were playing, joking..."
"He could have seen we were kissing."
"So we'll deny it. We are two against one."
"But he's a grown-up and grown-ups always believe each other, they never believe us kids."
"So we'll keep on denying it. Even if we have to swear on the Bible!"
"Yep. Perhaps it'll work..." I answered thoughtfully.
We were both shaken and anxious about the danger we were afraid threatened us. Our relationship, that which we held most precious, dear, and sacred, was in danger for the first time.
"Perhaps," I said, "it would be better not to... not to see each other for a while..."
"No, on the contrary. It would look odd. We have to show that we've got nothing to hide. We'll go back to the town together and act completely normal."
"Yes, you're right. And God help us!" I exclaimed.
As soon I said that, I regretted it. I still felt guilty before God and so I was sure He wouldn't help us, quite the reverse... We went back to Bayeux and I was nervous and scared, with a knot in my stomach. Several days passed and nothing happened, so I gradually felt reassured: the postman didn't see or say anything. But the strong emotion we had felt, the fear, persuaded us to be much more cautious.
When I reached fifteen, I started at the Secondary School in Caen. But Michel passed his bac and enrolled at the University, for which he had to go to Rouen. A period began for us when we could only see each other on Sundays or public holidays. At the beginning it was very hard for me, and I think for him too. When we were at last able to be together, it was a time of great celebration for us. And when Michel suggested to my parents that they allow me to go on a trip to Paris with him, in the Easter holidays, and they agreed, I was over the moon. They were ten wonderful days, him and I alone, in the City of Light. We rented a tiny twin-bedded room in a small boarding house in the Quartier Latin, but we only ever used one of the beds. They were unforgettable days, that made up for our enforced separation. Michel presented me with a silver bracelet engraved with my name, and he got one for himself with his name on, and inside both he had the date engraved: "Easter 1931, Paris".
It was beautiful to stroll in the streets and boulevards, in the squares, hand in hand or in a half-embrace, sometimes kissing on the lips, careless of the astonished stares of the passers-by. They were ten days of crazy, carefree life, of intense love. I never tired of looking at Michel, of admiring him, of feeling inside me how much I loved him. And I enjoyed seeing him so self-confident, determined, strong and at the same time so sweet with me, so tender, in love. I enjoyed being able to spend as much time as we wanted in bed with him, without having to watch the time, or being afraid of being caught. Those ten days brought us closer than ever. But we had to go home, back to everyday life, me at school in Caen and him in Rouen, meeting only on Sundays in Bayeux.
All the week was spent waiting for Sunday, and all the Sundays waiting for the Christmas holidays, then Easter, then the Summer. And then waiting for Christmas again... The summer holidays were a splendid time. Michel's family had a small house on the outskirts of Arromanches les Bains, by the sea, about seven miles from Bayeux. Michel arranged for his family to invite me to spend a good part of my holidays there. We swam together. Sometimes Michel hired two horses and we ambled along the coast on the beach. Sometimes too, we went round the outskirts of the town on our bicycles.
In Arromanches we were almost always alone, because Michel's father had to work away, even in Summer; his mother preferred the house and climate in Bayeux. And his father preferred to take his holidays with his wife in the south, on the Côte d'Azur. So we were alone, just he and I, with no worries; we could make love in complete freedom and I could enjoy his magnificent manhood inside me at any time and for as long as we liked. In that period I wrote several poems, all dedicated to Michel. But I never let him find out about or read them: I was afraid they weren't beautiful enough and he wouldn't like them. So I kept them without giving them to him, though sometimes, when we were close and silent, I recited them silently to him in my mind.
I remember one day, we were stretched out on the beach to get a tan, and a splendid boy about nineteen stopped near us and greeted Michel with familiarity. My friend seemed slightly embarrassed and answered the greeting very coolly. The boy sat near him and started to chat. Then after more than an hour he finally left.
"Who was he?" I asked as soon as he was gone.
He told me his name.
"I didn't ask you who he is, but who he was..." I continued.
Michel immediately understood what I meant. "I made love with him, before I met you, if that's what you mean."
"He is... he is a very beautiful boy."
"Yep."
"And likeable, too."
"You think so?"
"Don't you?"
"Well, he's not unpleasant..."
"And... do you still... like him?"
"I never give him a thought. I have you, you know that!"
"But he... he still wants you: it was clear from the way he looked at you."
"Possibly."
"But..."
"What?"
"Nothing." I lied.
To see that boy, so gorgeous, so much more beautiful than me, and more mature and casual and free and easy, had filled me with apprehension: how could Michel prefer me to him? Now that they had met again, wouldn't he go back to him again? But I said nothing. However, by now Michel knew me very well and he was not stupid, so he understood what was passing through my mind. He understood too that simply reassuring me was useless, that words could not have shielded me from that fear. Hence he said and did nothing.
But the next day, when the boy came to the beach again and approached us once more to greet Michel said: "I didn't introduce you to my André..."
"Yes, you introduced him to me yesterday." the other said.
"No, sorry: yesterday I just told you his name. But I didn't say that he was my boyfriend, that I'm in love with him, and that since the day we became lovers, I have not been attracted to another boy. You and I enjoyed a good time together. You're a likeable and beautiful boy, but nothing more is going to happen between us. Sorry for my frankness, but I owe that to you, and more than to you, to my André."
I felt a lump of emotion rise in my throat.
The other boy remained silent for a while, then spoke to me: "Congratulations, André. And don't worry, Michel has made himself perfectly clear. I won't come between you two. When I met again Michel yesterday, I have to be honest and admit I did consider the possibility... of course; but now I understand that I have give up. And... I think it'd be best if I go now. Bye bye..."
Michel didn't detain him, neither I did.
Alone again, I said: "Thank you, Michel."
"For what? Telling the truth?"
"I love you more and more, you know that?"
"Me too, my sweet friend."
I felt a great desire to embrace him, to kiss him, but there were other people around, so I just said: "Can we go for a swim?"
He understood straightaway and answered: "Could be better. Last one in is the prettiest!"
We both ran, panting, and plunged into the water laughing like two happy children.
This was my Michel.
But unhappily everything that is, cannot be forever: our story too came to an end.
One evening in July 1933, my father informed us that his employer had offered him the chance to run a branch of his factory in London, doubling his salary, and for that reason we would be moving to England before the end of September.
For me it was a real trauma, a thunderbolt from out of the blue. I understood only one thing: Michel and I were going to be separated! I felt as if I was going to burst out crying and ran to my room before the family noticed. Michel wouldn't be back before Sunday. We had been together three years, but I wanted to be with him for the whole of my life. I had to stay with him! All night long I couldn't sleep and made a resolution. In the morning I told my parents I was going to Caen on my bicycle to meet a schoolmate who had invited me for lunch. They were a little surprised I hadn't mentioned it earlier, but let me go.
So I started to cycle like a madman. I don't know where I thought I was going to find the strength: it was only about 18 miles to Caen, but Rouen was more than a hundred. But I was lucky: a truck going to Paris gave me a lift with my bicycle and set me down not more than 7 miles from Rouen. So about 4 hours later, after a final burst of cycling, I was in Rouen a little after noon. I immediately went to find Michel, whose address I fortunately knew. I found him just as he was sitting down to eat.
When he saw me, hot, dusty and beside myself, he came to me immediately, worried: "André, what's happened? Why are you here? What's wrong?"
I couldn't manage to speak. I just clasped my hands tightly together and big tears started to flow from my eyes.
"Ah, my boy... what's happened? Come here..." he said and steered me towards his room. As soon as we were inside, I flew into his arms and finally gave free rein to my anguish. When I had calmed down a little, Michel succeeded in dragging some words out of me and came to understand what had thrown me into such confusion. He too seemed struck down by the news, and for the first time since I had known him I saw tears in his eyes. He held me in his arms, very tight, and caressed me for a long time.
"What can we do, Michel?"
"I don't... I don't know."
"I don't want to move, I don't want to lose you, I don't want to."
He embraced me again, cuddling me. Then we started to discuss it, to think about it, but gradually we realised there was no solution. The only one would have been for us to run away from home. But my parents would certainly have called the police; as I was still a minor, it would just have meant Michel getting into big trouble with the law, and they would have been bound to find me and take me back to my family.
Moreover, neither of us had any money, or a job... Michel would have given up his studies to get a job, but I thought it wasn't fair and didn't want him to. There really was no possible solution: we were both distressed by this realisation.
Michel, his voice hoarse, said to me: "Let's go back to Bayeux. I'll ask my parents and yours to let us spend this last month together. We'll go on a trip..."
"But you have an exam to pass; how can you possibly...?"
" I wouldn't be able to keep going anyway, under the circumstances. I'll find an excuse to postpone it. We must spend these last days together. André, my sweet friend, how cruel life is!"
We went back on the bus. I got off the bus one stop before Bayeux with my bicycle and pedalled slowly to the town. That evening, as agreed, he stayed away. The following day he came to invite me. My father was a little reluctant to let me go, given our imminent departure for England, but my mother said that after all a nice trip with my friend wouldn't create a problem.
So the next day, Michel and I left. I was happy to go away with him, but also sad: it was my last chance to be with my beloved, to savour the beauty of our relationship. Who knew when we would meet again, who knew if we would meet again?
We went to Paris by train, and from there to Brussels and on to Amsterdam. We saw many beautiful things and made love with an intensity we had never known before, savouring every instant of that last opportunity. As if by a tacit agreement, we never spoke about my impending departure. But it was coming nearer and nearer with every passing day and the thought of it lay heavy on our hearts.
When I left France at the end of September, Michel wanted to accompany me to Le Havre but I didn't him want to. We said goodbye in Bayeux. I presented him with all the poems I had written for him. He presented me with his pocket watch.
We wrote to each other for a long time, at least ten years. And in that ten years, we saw each other three times.
Then he was killed in the war... He was not yet thirty years old.