I have never actually seen the tattoo of numbers on someone’s arm who survived the Holocaust, until yesterday. I was sitting in the front row of our Saturday Morning @Emanuel Minyan next to a woman who was reminding me of my Bubbi that day. Our Rabbi Bassin was beginning her teaching, when rather loudly, this woman whispered to me that she had been in the Holocaust. I nodded in what I hoped was an empathic way, but also to say that we needed to stay quiet for the teaching. She proceeded to again whisper loudly, “Do you vant to see the numbers on my arm?”
Truthfully, I didn’t want to, and not only because I didn’t want to disturb the service in any way. But I also knew the answer “No, thanks,” was not an option here. I flashed to the coincidence. The Torah portion I had just chanted was from NUMBERS. The priestly benediction. Perhaps this woman needed a moment of her own, private benediction? She pushed back the sleeve of her bright red jacket. The numbers were small, and seemed out of focus to me. I looked at her face. She was smiling. A smile Bubbi used to smile, one that said her days on this troubled planet have been long and full. I did the only thing I knew to do in this moment. I squeezed this woman’s hand, and staged my own whisper, “Thank you.”
The teaching was about Ruth and Naomi, about unconditional kindness, and about acceptance. It was about the choice we all make to practice our Judaism or not, and the tolerance and empowerment that comes from that choice. The connection between these topics and the reveal of these numbers on my new friend’s arm was unsettling for me. I got home in a fury. I demanded an audience of my daughter and husband as I pontificated angrily and in renewed horror that such things as the Holocaust, as slavery, as all the injustices going on due to race or religion, gender or sexual preference could be happening. And then I promptly fell asleep for hours.
Today, I remember some other things from that service. I had noticed a woman, fairly new to the community but a devoted regular, take care of people. She had made a point to offer her prayer book to a woman who was older and having trouble finding the page. She walked directly up to a man who most everyone shies away from to fix his collar and say good morning. Something I never would have thought to do. She touched his cheek in the most nurturing way. His normally skittish affect melted away in the moment of their interaction. I was surprised to see this, and wondered how it was that I had never seen it before. Perhaps in my position as cantorial sub for the day, I could see the bigger picture? I was not so into my own, smaller world and story that I was open to the movements around me in a larger way?
I am grateful that this memory stands right next to the other. The nurturing woman does not negate the horrors represented by a numbered tattoo embedded unwilling into the arms of a child. But it does help me pause. It helps to renew my inspiration to help those I might not notice. Yes, the big help of the world at large, but the small bits that can help a person feel more connected in the place I find them.
We start on MONTH OF MONDAYS tomorrow! And the rest of our week is as scheduled:
Mon June 5 8:15 am
Wed June 7 9:15 am
Fri June 9 8:15
in peace and hope,
Michelle
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