There are so many people with tattoos these days. In Los Angeles it might even be a requirement to have a tattoo or three to buy or rent in certain neighborhoods. Men and women, young and old have decorated their bodies with artwork to express themselves, individualize themselves or to conform to the norms of their peers. I bet if dogs and cats didn’t have so much fur there would be pet tattoo parlors around the country.
I started to think about tattoos after an e-mail from Rachael, a friend here on My Space. She has a tattoo. A tattoo that seems to mean a lot to her. A tattoo that she chose of her own free will. I have a tattoo. It is old and somewhat faded. Not as many people notice it as they used to. It’s nothing at all to look at. I don’t particularly like it and I sure didn’t want it when I got it. A branded steer and I had much in common when I was inked.
My Auschwitz number is on my left forearm. Everyone who was tattooed in Auschwitz has a series of numbers on their left forearm. For the first few weeks in the camp every time I looked at that tattoo I felt humiliated. As hunger, exhaustion and repetitious brutality whittled my body and mind, humiliation as an emotion disappeared and so did my concern about those numbers on my left forearm. When I arrived back home to Nice, no one asked why I had the tattoo, they all knew. Everyone in Europe was quite aware where those tattoos were given. When my family and I moved to Los Angeles in 1947 no one seemed to know much of anything about the Nazi concentration camps and I was barraged with questions at work, at the bus stop--hell everywhere I went. Since most of these inquires would end with the look of I wish I hadn’t been so nosey, I made it a policy only to wear long sleeves shirts even on sweltering summer days.
Each one of us finds our own unique way to cope with the hell life puts us through. The Nazis owned and brutalized me for almost two years. Since there was no way I could get those years back I wasn’t about to freely give my tormentors a moment more of my life by feeling angry or depressed every time I looked at those numbers. So, decades ago I decided that my tattoo wasn’t Nazi property or an Auschwitz keepsake, it was Pierre’s tattoo. In the past I’ve used the numbers as my ATM password, I’ve used them as the combination for locks and I still use the numbers when I play the Lotto. I like to think that it is one reason I’ve made it this far.
To pass the time these days, and because my girlfriend is the head usher, I work as an usher at a theatre. During a show I found three teenage boys with their feet resting on the seats in front of them. When I told them to put their feet down they just looked at me blankly and asked, don’t you know who we are? They went on to inform me that they were the stars of a national commercial. I told them I was sorry that I hadn’t seen it, but even if I had they still would have to take their feet off the chairs. Again they gave me blank stares. One of them noticed my left forearm.
"Where you get that tattoo?"
"Alcatraz," I blurted, having no patience to give the three a history lesson.
One of them smirked. "Alcatraz is closed."
"Not when I was your age."
That gave them pause. Their eyes met in conference.
"He seems like a tough guy," one of them said, and their feet plopped on the floor.
"Thanks," I said turning quickly on my heels so they wouldn’t see my smile.
It’s my tattoo, they're my numbers, I’ll use them as I see fit. I’m sure it is one of the reasons I’ve made it this far.
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