I remember staring at my paternal grandfather's tattoo.
He always got a kick out of me watching him shave with his little electric razor and he'd turn suddenly and aim it at me.
And one day I was watching him run that useless piece of crap over his face and my attention turned to the funny number on his arm, and he tried to divert my gaze by doing the thing with the electric razor, but this time I was unfazed and wanted to know about the number.
"It's just a special number that they gave me, that's all."
Finally my father explained it to me a few years after he was gone, the two and a half years where he got beaten senseless every day, the ransom they paid
(25 million Marks in gold, everything he had) the years spent living with his wife in the London Underground and then later in Nova Scotia while they waited for the United States to FINALLY admit Jewish refugees.
They finally arrived in New York in 1950.
I'm the toddler on grandma's lap, circa 1959.
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