I was only little when I first saw them on her arm. One of the numbers, a two, was slightly faded, almost like someone had been rubbing away at it for years. Unevenly placed along her arm, I wondered what they meant. I was far too afraid to ask but gathered up the courage one Saturday evening. Sitting in the warmth of the candlelight, she responded “One day, bubala.” My child-like mind danced around with all the possibilities.  Was it some sort of secret code?

 Some time passed, the numbers sank further into her skin, the wrinkles gathered, and in that time I got lost in a world of books, boys and bat mitzvahs. When I finally visited one rainy summer I anticipated seeing the numbers again but upon my arrival they were covered up. It was not until the last night of my stay that she told me what I already had come to learn through history lessons. My grandmother was a survivor.

 I ran my fingers across the numbers, letting them linger there, touching every one, trying to imagine her pain.  She didn’t need to speak another word. I didn’t want one more tear to fall, so we sat there embracing each other on the front porch. Her back stayed turned from the black smoke rising up from the factories in the distance.