The Man With the Numbers Tattoo....

     There I was in the hospital waiting room, waiting to visit my dear friend who had just had brain surgery.  "You'll have to wait a bit" I was told by the nurse, so I settled in at the waiting lounge until called.  Across from me was an elderly man with his sleeves rolled up.   At first, I barely noticed the man, since he seemed absorbed in his book.  Then, since the magazine abailable were "Field & Stream" (I'm definitely not a hunter!) or "Popular Mechanics" I began to focus on the elderly man across from me. 

     I'm not a good guesser of age, but he appeared to be in his early 80's.  On his left hand he wore a simple watch, and above the watch on his left arm were a series of numbers tattooed into his skin in blue ink.  I'm somewhat naive so I wasn't sure if these "numbers" were old-time prison numbers or....as I guessed, from a concentration camp. 

     Somehow, I NEEDED to know.  I needed to share a sadness and human moment with a stranger.  Totally unlike me, I crossed over to the couch where the elderly man was sitting.  I was now on his left side.  Like me, I presumed he was waiting to visit a loved one. 

      I've never done such a thing in my life, but I simply HAD to put my hand over the numbers on his arm.  Surprisingly, he did not jerk away and let me touch the tattoo.  He put down his book and looked into my eyes with eyes that told ALL.  This man had been to hell and back in a concentration camp.  I rubbed at the tattooed arm and began to cry.  Why did I cry???  I wanted to make up for all the injustices of mankind.  His eyes were KIND.  With a reassuring arm he said "That was a long time ago, and you are far too young to have been part of it."

      I wanted to ask more - which camp?  Dachau?  Auschwitz? Buchenwald?....but I dared not ask.  So there I sat arm in arm with a total stranger embracing his pain and injustice.

     Suddenly, I was called to see my friend - he said "Go now, and no more tears!"......I never asked his name or why he also was at that hospital waiting lounge.  I never saw him again, but I never forgot him.