Like her grandmother, Caren relies not only on words but both hands to talk. They move in windmill fashion to tamp the air. And isn’t that enough of a legacy? To celebrate her grandmother’s passion for talking—rather than the time she was rendered mute?
Why be attracted to the muteness?
Yet the bare arm comes up, making numbers not words the chief argument between us—A17388.
“Mom, try to see where I’m coming from. I had this tattooed in Nana Tonia’s honor,” Caren explains. “It’s my response to the Nazis trying to wipe us out. Decades later, this is my tribute. So anyone who sees this tattoo will ask what it’s about and I can tell Nana’s story.”
Tribute. When has that word ever been laid onto a Jew’s skin before? Never, but in my mother’s honor, Caren has tattooed her left arm with the same number branded onto her grandmother in the camps. I am Tonia’s daughter—a survivor’s daughter. After decades of trying to wrap my mind around atrocities my beloved mother had to endure, I’m shocked to stumble up against this particular sequel.
Nonetheless it’s done. The arm rests on the tabletop much as the occasional mouse our cat will present; a sagging bit of pink-toned flesh, mangled where teeth dug in.
“You were never one for following fads. This one—is especially distasteful,” I say, licking my lips in a careful rejection.
“I thought you’d be glad,” my child protests. “I’m not running from my Jewish ties, but carrying them along. Others are doing the...
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