Illustration by Alex Chen
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As the son of a Holocaust survivor, I grew up seeing the familiar blue-ink tattoo B-7619 on the inner side of my father’s left forearm. He never talked about it but he didn’t hide it either. We only knew that the tattoo was related somehow to the Holocaust.
My late father, Jerry Kapelus (born Jakob Kapelusz, he changed it when he immigrated) was born in Lodz, Poland. He was a child survivor of the Holocaust. In 1940, he and all of his immediate and extended family were forced into the Lodz Ghetto. In 1944, they were deported to the Auschwitz death camp, where all the family but my father were killed.
At Auschwitz, my father was selected as a slave labourer and, at age 15, was branded with a letter and a number. This became his identity and, for the Nazis, an efficient means of dehumanizing their slaves. When Auschwitz was cleared out in late 1944, he was death marched to the Buchenwald concentration camp, where he was ultimately liberated in spring 1945.
Like many survivors, my father never talked to us about the Holocaust. However, in the 1980s, when he learned about the rise of Holocaust denial, my father fought back by telling his eye-witness account. He worked with the Toronto Holocaust Museum and spoke to many audiences, hundreds of people. He continued to do this for over 25 years. Each time, he would roll up his sleeve and show his Auschwitz tattoo, a sort of proof that he was really there. When he was no longer physically able to tell his story in public, I promised to do this for him.
When my father died in 2021, I considered, getting a tattoo to honour his memory. I had always been repulsed by tattoos, given the connection to the Holocaust and had never thought about getting one. However, after my father’s death, I started to consider this as a legitimate way of linking to my father’s history.
I debated about whether getting a Holocaust-related tattoo was appropriate and what others in my family and other Holocaust survivors and their descendants would think. I struggled with why I really wanted to do this, what form of tattoo would even be right, and what kind of message the tattoo would communicate, so I put off the decision.
Late last year, I attended a seminar at the Toronto Holocaust Museum which changed my thinking entirely. The theme of the annual Dialogue for Descendants symposium was “Marked By Memory." The program included two documentary films, one about commemorating victims of the 2023 Nova Music Festival massacre, and one about grandchildren of Holocaust survivors who honoured their relatives with tattoos. These films were followed by a thoughtful panel discussion.
I was struck by the ways in which those featured in the films used tattoos to speak to their personal and shared grief. Some tattoos were basic, others elaborate. Some tattoos conveyed simple messages of remembrance or strength, particularly after Oct 7. Other tattoos were ideological, either subtly or blatantly linked to the Holocaust, Jewish identity or support for the people of Israel.
These films and panel discussion helped me to clarify my objectives for getting a tattoo and how that tattoo would appear. I resolved to get the tattoo as soon as possible. I hoped it might elicit questions and therefore allow me an opportunity to tell my father’s Holocaust story in response.
My tattoo would be a replica of my father’s, B-7619, in the same location on the inside of my left forearm. No statement or artwork. Simply, my father’s exact Auschwitz tattoo on my arm.
The next day, I visited a local tattoo shop, explained what I wanted and got inked. The tattoo artist spent considerable time with me trying to match the font of my father’s tattoo, including the European dash across the number 7. The artist had some previous experience with commemorative tattoos for lost relatives but she had never been asked to do a Holocaust-related tattoo. I told her a little about my father and she in turn shared a story about her own family.
The needle was a bit irritating but not painful. The artist asked me repeatedly if I was feeling pain. I replied that whatever pain I might be feeling would be nothing compared to what my father must have experienced at Auschwitz. She seemed to understand.
That evening, I sent the artist a link to a recording of a presentation I had given recently about my father’s Holocaust story, so that she would have a deeper understanding of what this tattoo represented. She took the time to watch the presentation and wrote me a lovely letter. In response, I told her that she was now part of the story.
As the weather warms up, my tattoo will be visible when I wear short sleeve shirts. I look forward to being asked about it and telling my father’s story. And, when I do presentations at schools, I’ll roll up my sleeve and show the Auschwitz tattoo, just like my father did.
Gary Kapelus lives in Toronto.