When I lived in New York City (1969-1974), I learned many things, all before cell phones or the internet, but by experience. Long before PTSD was in the vernacular.

That city was a world hubbub, and you saw people every day from different cultures all over the world. Different clothing, distinctive of their homelands. Different businesses, sometimes specific to a neighborhood. I suppose I heard about this particular business by word of mouth, as there seemed to be a bit of ‘hush-hush’ about it. Two Jewish sisters, both Holocaust survivors, ran a private salon in their apartment—a fifth-floor apartment in a lavish apartment building on Central Park West. I made a phone call appointment and went there for skin care. I was impressed when I walked in the door, it was very ornately decorated: Heavy draperies, silk-padded chairs and settees, gold chandeliers and crystal. The color which I remember was a soft sage-mint-green on furniture, carpet, everything, everywhere, etc. You sort of glided in there and in slow-mo, turned your head around to take it all in. One strange aspect was that although it was a residential apartment, there were several professional barber-type chairs in there. The sisters were beautiful women, in top physical shape, both with wavy blonde (dyed?) shoulder-length hair. They had to be in their late 50s or early 60s, and for my 22-year-old self, that was very old. But their skin GLOWED, and there were NO wrinkles that I could see. And no makeup…ever! SO, I had an appraisal done; heck, at 22 I had gorgeous skin, why was I there? Curiosity, knowledge, a treat? [On my measly salary because it WAS expensive.] Hence, I only went once. They did an analysis of your skin, if I recall. They wore satin designer uniform-dresses in that same green as everything else. I remember them standing over me as I sat in a chair. That way, I had an even closer look at their faces, smooth as a baby’s butt. Somehow, I got the answer I needed...never put soap and water on your face: ever! From the end of their imprisonment in 1945 until 1970 (when I encountered them), water had never touched their faces. That was 25 years. I had to ask, “How do you clean your face?” “Cleansing cream” was the answer. Explanation: Apply your favorite cleansing cream on a soft tissue, gently rub all over the face, even on shut eyelids and neck. You might use two, three or four tissues to get it all on and all off. I bought the cheapest (Pond’s?) and tried that routine for a while; it was a little time-consuming. Did I have nicer skin? Maybe? My skin was naturally oily at that age (I’d love that now!), so maybe that was too much grease for me? Maybe that routine is food for older, drier skin? Possibly? Would you try it for six months to see if it worked? It probably does! 

But this is the most important thing I remember. Since they had been prisoners of war in a Nazi German concentration camp, they had tattoos. As permanent nametags. Their prisoner I.D. number was tattooed on their left arm, in inch-tall digits and letters; it ran from their elbow crook to their wrist. The ink was navy blue-green, with very thick lines, very dark. The way they used their arms made me think that they were proudly showing off their “battle scars” as survivors of torture and abuse at the hands of Nazi soldiers. I shudder to think of the atrocities they saw and endured in the camps, where 13 million people died. I just shuddered reading that number. In 1970, I don’t recall seeing many tattoos at all in and around the city. Turns out that it was illegal, an underground activity…no wonder I did not see any! So… since there were none around to compare it, theirs were very noticeable. You didn’t want to stare at it to make them uncomfortable, but also from morbid curiosity, and a historical perspective (part of World War II) you were dying to study it. Those tattooed prisoner I.D. numbers were specific to the concentration camp of Auschwitz, where over a million people died. Theirs were certainly NOT pretty or artistic tattoos like the ones you see today, which are works of art. Theirs were rudely, painfully, hurriedly incised and very ugly. They were branded like cattle. The sisters might have worn long sleeves for years to cover them up, but as memories of the horrors of war receded, maybe they were trophies of their survival? To proclaim to the world what a nightmare they had endured? Some people think the Holocaust never existed, but sadly, it did, a dark blot on our history. My father [medic] was there documenting the Hell of War. He took black and white photographs of piles of stacked [cordwood] corpses. There were hundreds of corpses, emaciated bodies, mostly skin-covered skeletons. He did not allow us to see those horrific pictures until we were teenagers and knew about WWII.

I remember thinking “these girls, these sisters, were lucky to make it out alive, and look WHAT they did with their lives! And they are SO successful [as they had a huge following of clientele].” They seemed genuinely happy. They turned their pain into power! The indomitable human spirit! Amen.

Carol Veliotis is a local columnist for The Covington News. She can be reached at carol.veliotis@gmail.com.