That Mark on Her Arm

Leann Shamash
Apr 29
4 min read

#tazria #parshattazria #metzora #parshattazriametzora #holocaust #skin #tattoo #marks #identity #wearingidentity #yomhashoah #auschwitz

The combined parshiyot of Tazria and Metzora are about skin. Perhaps these two mysterious parshiyot are about more than skin; they are about marks that afflict the skin, the scalp, the beard and hair, even the walls of homes. When trying to find an explanation of why the Torah would spend so much time on meticulously diagnosing and applying treatments ( this is a complex process!) the rabbis come to the decision that the affliction, called Tzaraat, stems from the a word which sounds similar Metzora, Motzi Sheym Ra, which translates roughly as speaking poorly about others.

So, this is a spiritual affliction that manifests itself on someone’s skin, with a complicated repair process.

Yom Hashoah occurred just last week and the systematic tattooing of human beings as slave laborers seemed to fit with the idea of Tzsraat, but rather than a person bringing Tzaraat on themselves through indiscriminate speech, it was the Nazis who inflicted a disease on their victims, a mark of the dark spiritual sickness that spread from the Nazis to the victims. These tattoos, victims had to carry on their arms for the rest of their lives, if they were lucky enough to survive the attempted extermination of the Jewish people.

So, perhaps there is some connecting point between Yom HaShoah and the Parshiyot of Tazria and Metzora. As the victims of the Holocaust grow old and die, there are efforts to say that these events did not occur. There are many in this country who do not even know what the number on a victim's arm might mean.

The following is an imaginary encounter.

May we hear better news soon.

Leann

THAT MARK ON HER ARM

That mark on her arm.

Seventy two years later, she still feels it burn her flesh.

Does she wear the mark on her arm or bear it?

Does she carry it or has it carried her into these,

her final years?

Most days the mark is covered by her sleeves, so no one sees,

six numbers lined up,

printed on her forearm.

Still, after all these many years they have not faded,

140603.*

But sometimes,

on summer days

when the heat rises like steam from an iron

she gives in,

and her arms lay open,

bare.

On the bus to the city

a young man takes the seat next to her,

his black hair buzzed short and arms tightly muscled.

Tattoos play out an unknown story on his knuckles, hands and arms.

He settles himself.

The bus lumbers in fits and starts downtown.

The old woman squeezes closer to the window and stares at the city street.

At that moment the young man glances down and notices

the numbers, blue on her arm.

He fails to understand why this silent old woman,

with her shopping cart wedged between her and the seat

would have a tattoo on her arm;

a tattoo with strange numbers.

He looks down and stares.

Over the rumble of the bus she hears his voice.

He points to her forearm.

"What are these numbers on your arm?"

She turns from the window and looks down at her arm

and sees the markings as through it is the first time,

as through his eyes.

She wonders what to say.

Is it a mark of shame for one who unwillingly carries these numbers,

or a mark of shame for those who burned it into her flesh?

Perhaps, for some, it is a mark of no consequence at all?

A fiction of sorts?

Or perhaps, like the mark of Cain, it places her as a wanderer,

forever ostracized among people?

Is this the mark of a disease

or is the disease rooted in those who inscribed it?

She pauses, surprised.

This man, no, this boy, does not know what it means?

This, her mark,

her tattoo, is the mark of a plague,

not an illness, but a plague.

It will never heal, never disappear all the days of her life.

It is a mark that forever keeps her on the outside

looking in.

She lifts her head and meets his eyes,

sees he doesn’t comprehend

the meaning, the history.

She speaks softly, barely a whisper.

The man needs to lean in to catch her words.

"I am a survivor," she declares.

"I survived."

Air Force photo by Rudy Purificato Taken from Wikimedia Commons- Auschwitz survivor Sam Rosenzweig

*A note. For this piece I have taken the liberty of using the number of Mr. Sam Rosenzweig to be the number of the character in this short story. I used this number because this image of Mr. Rosenzeig's arm was allowed for use on the WikiCommons and free to use. The woman in this story is someone I imagined.

For more on tattooing during The Holocaust please see: https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/tattoos-and-numbers-the-system-of-identifying-prisoners-at-auschwitz

That Mark on Her Arm

Other Posts From Words Have Wings on the Parshiyot of Tazria/Metzora

Recent Posts

1 Comment