It had been an idyllic outing. Many years back, some kind and
generous religious performers had put together a Chanukah
program to entertain Jerusalem's children during the
holiday.
The preview consisted of clowns, mimes, and jugglers but now
it was time to enter the main hall for the more involved
productions. I settled my two small children around me so
that they would feel secure and comfortable. Finally I
allowed myself to sit down and relax. That's when I saw
it.
It had actually been a while since I'd last had eye contact
with this demonic image from our history. An older woman with
her beloved grandchildren. Her outstretched arm resting on
the top of a child's chair revealed a painful part of this
woman's life story. A blurred number was tattooed into her
skin above the hand.
The vision of that number brought forth a waterfall of mixed
emotions in me. The first was simply recognition. Although
our immediate family had left Europe close to a decade before
Hitler's arrival, there were a large extended family members
who were not so lucky. The "numbers" were out in full force
at every family gathering.
To my Bubby's and Zaidy's credit, they did whatever they
could to ease the plight of each new arrival, offering
whatever assistance their meager means allowed. As a result,
my grandparents were looked upon as a sort of
patriarch/matriarch amongst these distant cousins.
The next accompanying emotions are pure awe and amazement at
how these people miraculously rebuilt their lives. Pain and
sorrow move in as one naturally reflects on what
gehinom a survivor was likely to have encountered. But
lastly, I actually felt a certain measure of joy seeing this
woman enjoying this holiday outing with her second generation
post Hitler, ym'sh.
As I indicated, growing up in the sixties and seventies,
survivors were always part of the background; the culture;
the accents, the tattoos, and at times the peculiar
mannerisms. It was just something I had always taken for
granted. My mother, a typical North American young adult, was
struck by the way these newcomers would stand off to the side
whispering to one another. It seemed that they felt that no
one could or would comprehend what they had gone through.
My mind makes the association to a much more recent event. I
was in the Shaarei Tzedek nursery signing myself and my
newborn daughter out of the hospital when I came in contact
with a volunteer. Medium height, short brown sheitel,
wrinkles that revealed her age, her life's tale was somewhat
announced by that mesmerizing tattoo. Watching her wash and
dress the newest Jewish generation, a modern day Shifrah, I
could only begin to identify with her sense of nachas.
It's a cliche but it's worth repeating: This is our revenge
on Hitler and all his cohorts.
But somehow, at the end of these musings, there is a certain
kind of concern. I wonder about my kids. With natural aging a
factor, we're seeing less and less of those tattoos. Are my
kids even aware of their existence? Now that I think about
it, I realize that my older kids have commented from time to
time upon coming across this novelty. They meet it with that
same awe I feel but mixed in is curiosity. At least I know
they've had some exposure. But what about my smallest
children? Will they only learn about the Holocaust through
books and never meet with those true heroes who literally
survived despite it all?
To me it matters a great deal. That tattoo is a symbol of who
we are as a people; despised by the nations, persecuted and
tortured and yet strong and determined enough to carry on.
It's a lesson for life.
To wrap up how truly significant these tattoos play in our
Jewish psyche, I'll relate a story I heard by Rabbi Hanoch
Teller.
A young man had been learning in a yeshiva for baalei
tshuvah and had been progressing nicely in his studies.
Yom Kippur was approaching and a new and unusual problem
arose. Upon entering the mikveh, he realized his
dilemma. How could he possibly reveal the grotesque tattoo he
had so foolishly marked into his skin so many years back? The
young man waited oin line with his arms folded over across
his chest. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and upon
catching himself, the odious tattoo was revealed. Suddenly
there was pure silence all around; only adding to the poor
young man's embarrassment. No one knew what to say.
Then one lone voice was heard. "See, I too have a tattoo," an
elderly man called as he pointed to his arm. "I went through
my gehinom and you went through yours."
