The identification numbers that the Nazis tattoo on Jewish prisoners’ arms symbolize those prisoners’ trauma—and the fact that they can never forget that trauma, even if they try. Tattoos are forbidden in many Jewish communities, and so just the act of tattooing Jewish prisoners demonstrates how Nazis were trying to destroy Jewish culture not just through killings but culturally as well. In particular, it’s significant that the tattoos are identification numbers, because this represents how one of the Nazi strategies was to strip Jewish people of their identities, removing names to turn them into numbers. Rather than resist using identification numbers, Rivka advises Hannah that it is actually better to follow the Nazi rules and try to avoid attracting attention. Hannah learns to refer to people by their numbers in public—but she never forgets their true names. This way, Hannah can show fellow prisoners respect, while also protecting them and herself from attracting unwanted attention.
In the novel’s present, Hannah’s family members Grandpa Will and Aunt Eva, themselves survivors of the camps, still have their identification numbers tattooed on their arms. While the tattoos still symbolize the dehumanization and trauma they suffered in the concentration camps, the tattoos ultimately also become a symbol of Will, Eva, and other survivors’ resilience.
Tattoo Quotes in The Devil’s Arithmetic
There was a lipstick stain where Aunt Eva had kissed her on the forehead. She ran some water and tried to scrub it off, feeling guilty because Aunt Eva was her favorite aunt, the only one who preferred her over Aaron. Hannah was even named after some friend of Aunt Eva’s. Some dead friend.
“Give them this!” Grandpa Will shouted at the TV, holding up his left arm to the set. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled up above the elbow.
Photographs of Grandma’s family but none of Grandpa Will’s, because, Aunt Eva had once explained, no photographs had been saved in the death camps. “We are our own photos. Those pictures are engraved only in our memories. When we are gone, they are gone.”
“You are zugangi, newcomers, the lowest of the low,” the tall, dark-haired woman said to them as they huddled in the stark barracks room. She was in a blue dress with green piping and the short sleeves displayed a long number tattooed on her arm.
“When the man finished the number, he reached out and touched the collar of her dress, smoothing it down gently. “Live,” he whispered. “For my Chaya. For all our Chayas. Live. And remember.”
“In my village, in the camp . . . in the past,” Eva said, “I was called Rivka.”
Hannah nodded and took her aunt’s fingers from her lips. She said, in a voice much louder than she had intended, so loud that the entire table hushed at its sound, “I remember. Oh, I remember.”