I'll never forget my birthplace.
The small village in France that I grew up in. My village of Locquignol.
Mon petit village.
Both the beginning and ending of my life.
I was born in 1890 to a set of older parents who lived in the heart of the village. Mon père was an older man and a skillful blacksmith. Ma mère, maman, was an older woman who adored her husband and son. Whenever she had the time, she would bake bread and other pastries for our village.
We were tight knit. One big family.
We all knew each other.
It was a simple village. Citizens did their work, earned their money, and provided for their families. Life was never easy but we never worried. We never had a care in the world.
Most of the time we traded for goods. Mon père would repair another man's set of horseshoes in return for receiving a couple pounds of meat. Money was never our concern.
Overall, my simple village was a large farming community.
The most well known of the farming families was the Bodt family. They migrated from Belgium to our village.
We welcomed them with open arms.
My family of three, the Kirsteins, welcomed the Bodts, a family of seven, with open arms.
I welcomed their youngest son with open arms.
Marco Bodt.
He and I got along right from the beginning. We were two halves of a whole.
Our village had a saying for that. A saying for these close friendships. Deux esprits, un cœur.
Two minds, one heart.
I shared my heart with him from the beginning. He always had my heart.
Next to my simple village was a forest. Its name is La forêt de Mormal. It was a peaceful forest best known for its plentiful game of deer. The children of the village, including myself and Marco, often played in that forest.
Une forêt de souvenirs. A forest of memories.
We were innocent children. We played together, laughed together, gathered nuts and mushrooms from that forest together, and everything else. My family adored him as his family did me.
Deux esprits, un cœur.
The forest was safe. It was sanctuary.
As we grew into our adolescence, we became more aware of each other. I often had thoughts of Marco as a boy would have thoughts of a woman. I was frightened and distressed.
Dans mon village de Locquignol, to be a young boy and have such lecherous thoughts of another boy was sinful. Anything out of the ordinary was sinful.
My affections for Marco were sinful.
However, despite the fear, it was a beautiful feeling. When we'd play and hunt in the forest, our bodies were close together. When we'd reach for the same stick or mushroom, our hands would touch but we didn't pull away immediately.
His hand lingered over mine.
I looked at him.
He looked back at me. We were like that for many moments. We stared at each other, into each other's soul. My golden eyes into his deep brown eyes. Brown like the earth.
He slowly withdrew his hand and blushed. A dust of pink and a glean of sweat covered his freckles. His boyish, innocent quality.
He smiled back at me and I returned it.
Deux esprits, un cœur.
He felt the same as me.
I was determined to take this further. On one of our normal scavenging days, I led him farther into the forest than we've ever gone before. Farther than anyone ever goes. It was safe. We had no worries.
Marco laughed when I refused to tell him where we were going. The laugh I enjoyed.
We came upon a massive tree in the forest. It's branches and roots were thick and sturdy enough for us to climb upon if we wanted to. But this is not why I brought Marco with me.
He asked me again why we were there and I couldn't stop myself. I pinned him against that tree and I showed him in one desperate kiss how much I wanted him. Even if he were to push me away and renounce our friendship, I wanted him to know.
He didn't push me way. He didn't spit on me and call me unholy.
He held me tight against him. He returned the kiss with much fervor.
He felt the same. He wanted me as I wanted him.
We continued this. We were so happy. We finally had each other, shared intimate secrets no one else deserved to know. We admired one another.
I admired his lips and worshiped his body. Marco explored my own body, carefully and curiously.
And it always took place at that tree. Our tree. Notre arbre.
We were comfortable with each other. I loved him and he loved me. Light kisses and gentle touches soon turned to desperate pleas and primal instincts. He grabbed me and held me close, keeping me safe in his arms.
We were both stripped of our clothing and he turned me to the tree, kissing the back of my neck, claiming my pale skin with his deep red marks. He entered me for the first time and my hands clenched tight around the bark of the tree.
He fit so well inside of me. Our bodies were made to meld into one.
He pleasures us both and I let out screams of ecstasy. We were so far in the forest that no one would ever hear us but I didn't care if they heard or not. I didn't care if they heard how much I loved Marco.
He held onto me so tight, whispering in my ear in pants and moans, je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime, over and over again. It felt so right. I love you, Marco. I love you.
I loved you so much.
Our lovemaking was so intense and beautiful. My knees gave out from the pleasure Marco gave me but I didn't want it to end. Marco kissed and held me before moving me over to one of the many roots protruding from the ground. We finished in that spot.
We stayed by the tree for a long time after that, just holding each other and reveling in the closeness of our naked bodies. We kissed each other lazily and whispered sweet nothings.
Our secret relationship went on for a long time. We were able to hide it from our village for over a year and a half.
I was seventeen and he was eighteen when we were caught. We were complacent. Both of us had grown bold and brought our love to the village. Whether it be behind a cart, in a hidden corner, or even my bedroom, nothing stopped us. Marco loved to tease me. He loved watching how I squirmed beneath him, silently begging for more. I couldn't utter a sound in fear of being detected.
But that fear heightened our pleasure. We were addicted.
And that was our downfall.
We had snuck into his bedroom during the afternoon, while his family was out tending to the farm. This was our first time making love in his home and our excitement was brimming. His mother had seen us enter the house without our knowledge and came into his room as we clung to each other, as our bodies had become one.
We were berated, attacked, scorned, anything you could think of. I was thrown out of the house by his father, who went and immediately notified my father and the church. Marco and I received a beating from our parents. We were forbidden from seeing each other and were kept under a very watchful eye by the village.
They viewed us as heathens.
The church gave many attempts at trying to rid us from our sin and wept since we were such young and promising youths. They wanted to save us.
We didn't need to be saved. We just needed each other.
Many months passed by before I was able to see him again. I missed him dearly and I know he felt the same.
Deux esprits, un cœur.
I snuck out of my home in the dead of night. I ran quickly and quietly to Marco's home and gently tapped on his window. He ran to me immediately and pulled me through the window to kiss me. I hadn't felt his lips in so long. Those lips fueled my need to take him back with me, take him back to la forêt de Mormal. He fled with me to the forest.
We made love as soon as we got to notre arbre. It was desperate, needy, intense and unbearable. We held onto each other so tight, but Marco held on tighter. To this day, I believe his fingerprints are embedded on my skin from that night. My proof that he existed. He was afraid to let me go.
That night was almost a mirror image of our first intimate time together. We stayed close to each other, limbs tangled together.
But I had something else in mind. I wanted to run away with Marco. I wanted to find a safer place to live with him, somewhere we can be true to our feelings. No more running around a forest or our village and hiding our love.
His face answered my biggest fear. The way his brow furrowed and his slight frown showed me that he was conflicted, but would not give me the response I so desired. He refused; he told me it would be impossible. I begged him to reconsider; I tried to tell him about how happy we would be somewhere else. He shook his head. He told me we couldn't just leave our families like that, that it wouldn't be the right thing to do. It's not what responsible people do.
Marco était un homme de vertu. Marco was a man of virtue.
I grew short with him. I yelled back awful things to him. I hurt my Marco and I regret it immensely. His face from that night is burned into my memory. I never wanted to hurt my sweet Marco. I asked him, how he could say he loved me if he did not want to run away with me? That wasn't fair.
That wasn't fair to him.
I screamed at him that night. I felt hurt and betrayed that he chose his family over me. I was stupid. I was childish.
I got dressed and left him there. A pattern that would soon be repeated over and over again.
Marco and I didn't speak for well over a year.
I was nineteen and he was twenty.
In the time we were separated once more, my parents had arranged me to marry a girl one year my junior. She was the daughter of another family that my parents were on good terms with. She was average to me. Not too pretty but not too ugly. She was quiet and reserved.
She was nothing like my Marco. But I had no choice. She was to be my bride and as a husband-to-be, I had to take care of her.
She was not my Marco. Mon Marco. Elle n'était pas mon Marco.
My wedding day was joyous to her, my parents, and the entire village. It was hell on earth for me. I had to pretend to be someone I was not. I almost felt bad for my new wife. She tried her hardest to be the perfect little wife for me. I refused to consummate our marriage on our wedding night.
It wasn't right. It didn't feel right.
One day, on a cold October's day, I saw him. Marco Bodt.
I saw him again on the outskirts of town, where I normally took my hour-long walks. He looked determined.
He grabbed my arm and took me behind a building. He tried to take my hand in his but I refused to give it to him. He sighed and looked at me with disheartened eyes.
Marco told me the night we last ran away has played over and over in his mind for the past year. He regretted not saying yes to running away and gave me a sad smile. He told me he was willing to throw everything away for us.
Marco wanted to run, but it was too late.
I told that we couldn't. It was too late.
I told him that I was married and held up my left hand. He gasped in shock and backed away. He asked me if I still loved him. I did. But my mouth said otherwise.
I told him no. I wanted to protect Marco. The sooner he got over me, the better. I wanted him to be safe and live a normal life.
A life without me. Une vie normale sans Jean Kirstein.
I wanted him to learn from our mistakes, as I called them. I wanted him to be safe and have a future in the village. Marco grabbed onto my shoulders, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He begged me. He begged me to say that I loved him. I did, I really did, but I didn't tell him. I didn't respond.
I told him I needed to go but his grip on me only tightened. He said he would never let me go until I told him that I love him.
Dis-moi que tu m'aimes!
Tell me that you love me!
I took his hands off of me and turned on him angrily. I yelled at him. I told him that he needed to fix himself, that his lifestyle choice would ruin him. I told him I wanted to be his friend and help him, but if he would continue to have these sinful feelings for me, then I wouldn't.
I told him that we should never speak to each other again and I left before he could stop me. As I got to the other side of the building, I stopped as I heard his weeping. I turned around to see him and I wish I hadn't. There he was, mon Marco, standing in the same place and holding himself. He was crying.
I think I was crying too.
That was the last time I ever saw Marco Bodt.
I kept to myself and rarely left my parents' home. My wife was concerned and tried to help me but she couldn't. I felt so bad for her but I felt even worse about myself. I despised myself for what I had said to Marco, but it was the only way. He had to learn.
Weeks passed by after that final meeting. I didn't see him anymore.
I soon learned why that was.
Marco Bodt had been murdered.
Mon père sat me down one day at our kitchen table when he told me the news. He had heard from almost every villager who was a witness that Marco tried to seduce another person. His mistake was that the person was un homme. A man, he tried to get another man.
Marlowe Sand.
That man was with a group of his friends when Marco approached him. Mon pauvre Marco! So sad that he needed the touch of another man he didn't know! Marlowe reacted with disgust and had his group overpower Marco. He didn't fight back; he allowed his attackers to do whatever they pleased.
Marco était un homme simple. Marco was a simple man.
Not confrontational in the slightest. He would never hurt anyone.
Mon père continued to tell me that Marlowe was not finished and brought it to the attention of the villagers. They rioted. Mon pauvre Marco. He must've been so scared. He was placed where everyone could see. The villagers looked down on him with disgust. They spat at him, they kicked him, they hurt mon Marco.
The villagers were angry at him. Angry at his lifestyle. Angry at his love for me.
They wanted to punish him immediately.
Mon père finished up the story and walked over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and lingered for a few moments. My body was tense and rigid but I held a straight face. After a few moments of silence, he removed his hand and stepped out of the house. Before doing so, he apologized for the loss of my friend. The Bodts were good friends of his even if they despised me.
I remember just sitting there in a daunting silence. I was in denial. I was in shock.
Mon pauvre Marco! To deserve such a fate. My heart moved for him.
I slowly stood up from my chair and went into my room. I was home alone. When I entered my room, my demeanor changed almost instantly. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks. I could only compare them to the rushing of waterfalls.
I sobbed and I wailed. I kicked and I screamed. I tossed around anything and everything I could grab. My heart was aching. My heart was in pain. I screamed out Marco's name at the top of my lungs. But he couldn't hear me.
I shouted out apologies but he couldn't hear me. It was my fault. If I had just persuaded him better to run away with me. If I had just agreed to run away with him when he begged me to. What have I done? I thought I had done the right thing by breaking away from him but I merely got him killed.
I killed him. Marco Bodt had died because of me.
I bet he cursed my name in his final moments. I deserved it.
My room was destroyed and I didn't care. I climbed into bed because I was exhausted. I had destroyed my room just as I destroyed my friend, my lover, mon Marco. I lied down in bed and wept. I cried until I feel asleep.
From that day on, the Bodts were constantly harassed. They had four older children. The village wondered if they had been led astray by their youngest brother. None of them had been. They were all model citizens. The villagers eventually backed off.
They never gave Marco such peace. His name was used as a curse and was treated as one. His name was used to scare the children of our village. His name was demonized. Mothers would tell their children that Marco Bodt would come into their rooms at night and rape them if they gave into sinful desires. This way the children would not lust over the wrong person.
It was disgusting. They didn't understand love like Marco and I had. Nothing about it was sinful but they would never listen. They didn't want to listen. Nothing was wrong with it.
I couldn't take it. I couldn't take it anymore. How dare they use his name in such ways?
That name. That name that I loved so much. That name that I wish could come freely from my lips.
Marco Bodt.
Marco Bodt.
Mon Marco.
You deserved better. You deserved the world and I took that from you. I loved you, Marco.
Je t'aime, Marco.
I was twenty three when I had decided to leave mon petit village. It was 1913 and I was ready to flee.
Anywhere. I would go anywhere. Maybe I would run off to Paris. Anywhere as long as it was far away from Locquignol, away from la forêt de Mormal, away from the Bodts. Away from the censored way of living.
Away from the lies.
Je suis un honnête homme. I am an honest man.
The day before I would make my grand escape, Marco's mother stopped me in the middle of town one day. Her fingers gripped tight to my shoulder, almost piercing me. She glared at me with malicious eyes. They were not Marco's eyes. She turned me around and spat at me.
I didn't defend myself. I was in the wrong.
I knew I was.
How awful it must have been to live your life knowing your son was used as a demon to scare children to not be like him. To not be like me.
She narrowed her eyes when she spoke to me. Her words were venomous and cruel.
She wished that I was the one murdered that day. That day a few years ago. She wanted her son back more than anything in the world. She pushed me away and demanded that I answer her. That I answer for my sin.
This was my retribution.
I was silent and I let a few tears fall. I took a deep breath and responded to her.
"Every day. I wish I was the one who died every day."
I left that night at the age of twenty three, on June 16th of 1913.
It would have been Marco Bodt's twenty fourth birthday.
Bon anniversaire mon Marco.
I will see you again one day. I hope you will welcome me back with open arms.