She was a young woman, holding her child’s hand.
I saw the numbers, tattooed on her arm. But she was far too young, and so I asked her.
“I did it for my grandma”, she told me.
“Excuse, me, but why would your grandma want you to have this tattoo?”
“She was tattooed in a concentration camp. She was ashamed. So I got one, to share it with her.” she told me.
I looked over at her husband, who now had the child. “Lucky man.” I thought. “She is so much!”