Emmanuel & Giampaolo – A True Story of Friendship

 A true story from my childhood. In the late 1960s, I met Emmanuel, a Jewish boy who became my closest friend. We shared weekends, laughter, dreams, and a bond that went beyond religion, culture, and language. This memory lives in me — especially now, as the world faces new conflicts. I share it hoping someone, somewhere, might remember. And if not, may this story remain a symbol of peace, innocence, and friendship

 “This is a true story. If anyone recognizes Emmanuel or his family, please reach out. I’ve been searching for many years. Memory is peace.”

Emmanuel & Giampaolo – A True Story of Friendship

Emmanuel and Giampaolo

עמנואל וג'יאמפאולו

“Stay still… Okay, now the photo… No, no, Emy, smile! Paolino, get closer to Emy… Ready? There we go.”

“Mama, my name is Emmanuel, not Emy. And Paolino is Giampaolo,” replied my weekend playmate in Milan, where Grandma Maria would take me from her countryside home to visit her fiancé — a gentle man with green eyes I called uncle, whom she met after Grandpa passed away.

Myriam was Emmanuel’s mother. She had the same name as Grandma Maria in Hebrew, and they were about the same age. Myriam had six sons, and Emmanuel was the youngest, born when she was nearly forty. For me, having a grandmother just over forty-five was something to brag about, and her Eastern surname made her seem even closer to Myriam — like a sister and colleague.

Emmanuel became one of my dearest friends. We were like “Ringo” cookies, he’d say — though his skin and curly black hair weren’t that dark. He was convinced Grandma Maria was Jewish like him.

“Look at her surname. Yours is French, hers is Eastern!” he’d say, pronouncing it with a rolling ‘r’ typical of his language. I was fascinated, even though he teased me for my soft ‘r’, which was almost a torment back then, especially at school.

In summer, we spent afternoons at the zoo in Porta Venezia (now thankfully just a park), or at the Idroscalo. In other seasons, even with my parents, we’d go with Emmanuel’s family on trips to lakes and places Uncle P. knew well — five of us in a Bordeaux-colored Fiat 1100, and Emmanuel’s family in a big van.

We were like twins. We shared painting, stargazing, gymnastics, and a mutual dislike for soccer. We played hide-and-seek, ran through fields near the Lambro River, among flowers, wheat, and cherry trees.

At eight or nine, the world was more colorful. We often walked hand in hand through village paths, though the narrow-minded mentality could label us as “different.” In the city, everything felt normal — I wished my parents would move there, but we had another grandmother to care for.

There was no malice in our hearts. In his room or mine, we’d lie side by side reading comics or watching TV, then burst into laughter and roll on the carpet wrestling. Then came butter-and-sugar sandwiches or jam with tea in the afternoon.

Myriam and Grandma Maria were beautiful — dark eyes, olive skin, raven hair, curvy and graceful, with lovely voices.

Adam, Emmanuel’s third brother, often took us to his band’s rehearsals in a basement. They played beat and rock songs — a dream. Emmanuel moved like Jimi Hendrix, mimicking guitar riffs, while I pretended to play drums. We’d exchange glances full of mischief. Forget the Zecchino d’Oro and those kids in matching outfits singing silly songs…

If that wasn’t brotherly love, I don’t know what was. One evening, while the others were at dinner, Emmanuel and I were in his room when a thunderstorm broke out. He screamed at the first thunderclap.

His mother rushed in to comfort him. I didn’t understand his fear — storms were normal to me. Myriam saw my confusion and explained their story: how in 1967, during the Six-Day War between Israel and Egypt, Syria, and Jordan, they had fled Ascalon near the red zone, first reaching Rome, then Milan.

I was speechless. I’d heard about it on the news, but never from someone who lived it. They were still waiting to return to their beloved homeland.

After she left the room, I sat beside Emmanuel. He had calmed down, leaning against a pillow. I put my arm around his neck. He turned to me, his dark eyes full of tears and fear, and hugged me tightly.

Then, something happened. Our lips met in a gentle kiss. I was stunned. He seemed surprised too and said it was how they greeted or showed affection. He pulled me close and kissed me again — this time longer, holding my face.

I didn’t know what to say. He turned on the TV like nothing had happened. I looked at him in wonder. For him, it was normal. And maybe it was — a way to express true friendship.

I’d kissed many girls — Bruna, Loredana, Cinzia, Antonella — all from Grandma’s street. But that was different. Sentimental, maybe. Having three at once (I know, it’s funny at eight or nine) — a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead — made me feel like a baby Latin lover.

But that kiss with Emmanuel stayed with me. It was beautiful, freeing, and above all, innocent. A gesture that, in Jewish culture, is normal — a way to greet and express affection. A strange kind of love that only those without malice can understand.

In 1971, Emmanuel’s family returned to Jaffa, now a district of Tel Aviv. Grandma Maria and Uncle P. took me with them to Linate Airport to say goodbye.

I cried on the way there. So did Emmanuel. In the waiting area, he rummaged through his colorful bag and handed me a little doll with black curly hair — like him.

“Will we write to each other always?”

“Yes, always, Emmanuel.”

“Promise you’ll come to Jaffa?”

“I don’t know, but I’d leave with you right now.”

“Do you think we’ll see each other again?”

“Yes, I swear we will.”

He smiled. A voice announced their flight to Tel Aviv. There were hugs, kisses, tears between Grandma and Myriam. His brothers spun me around in their arms. Emmanuel, after saying goodbye to Grandma and Uncle, came to me.

Without a word, he hugged me and kissed me on the lips.

“Remember me, forever, Giampaolo.”

“Yes, forever.”

“I’ll write as soon as I get home.”

I nodded. They moved toward the checkpoint. Minutes later, they vanished into the departure area. I began to cry — a pain I couldn’t handle at ten years old. Grandma comforted me at the airport and on the way home. My mind was filled with Emmanuel.

We wrote to each other until 1973. Then came the Yom Kippur War. After that, nothing. I hoped they were safe. I tried to find them, but I didn’t remember their surname — it was too difficult. Grandma died suddenly the year before, and Uncle P. became ill. We lost all contact.

Now it’s 2025. I remember that beautiful friendship. I searched on Facebook and other platforms — nothing. Just silence.

All I have left are memories of Myriam and her family, and Emmanuel — my friend of adventures, of that fraternal kiss, and those deep black eyes. I hope they live on in someone else’s eyes, maybe his children’s.

And who knows — maybe one day, like a miracle, we’ll meet again.

Giampaolo Daccò Scaglione