The Gare du Nord train station was unseasonably warm, the air muggy, too warm for a jacket. I walked down the stairs just ahead of Byron, who whispered You’re turning on the tourists.
I scowled at him and asked what do you mean?
He started to tell me that people were staring at my tattoo. Just then a disheveled drunken man walked up and started shouting what appeared to be compliments, before saluting my left arm. I just kept walking.
We found a table at a crowded cafe under the Eurostar departure gate, and before we could order a different drunken wreck of a man made his way to our table. He stood in front of me making elaborate lewd gestures as I stared straight through him. Two well-dressed elderly ladies at the next table laughed, and one turned in her chair to stare at me.
I am not accustomed to creating such a stir. As a general rule, people do not talk to me at all, and they certainly do not come right up and make sexually suggestive remarks about my body. I felt confused and queasy, and wondered out loud if All Soul’s Day makes people more crazy than usual. Byron shrugged.
The women at the next table stood to leave. The one who had been staring pointed at my shoulder, indicating that she wanted to see the whole design. I obliged, pulling my sleeve up to show the top of the dagger. She reached out a hand and traced the design, smiling, a gold tooth flashing. Her friend stood back, nodding.
We were all smiling when she started to roll up her sleeve. Byron laughed but I froze.
Before she had pulled her sweater far enough to show the first line I knew what she was about to show us: a serial number etched on her forearm in smudgy ink. I reached toward her reflexively, then flinched back. We did not need a translator to understand as she asked if we recognized what it was.
Concentration camp, Byron replied, and she nodded, still smiling, before turning to leave.