#being the youngest people in shul to stay for Yizkor

[curtis-brothers-hug]

Whichever Curtis brother ends up having a son, names him Daniel. “It’s after my father.” “Wasn’t your father’s name Darrel?”

daniel kuritskiy wasn't darrel curtis until the age of 24

of course, he had changed it when he got to America. he wasn't a fool. if he had known anything from what he had survived it was that no matter how safe he could feel it could be taken away at any moment, and changing his last name was safe, and his first name too, while he was at it. mrs mathews knew what she was talking about, her husband had done the same thing, and he took her advice. all it took was learning a manufactured, harder, happier sounding southern accent, losing the polish one (though it still came out from time to time but not enough to be suspicious, not enough to be a bother), and he was applying for a job (because you have to make money and you have to move on) at the roofing company who were hesitant to take him seeing how frail he first looked but soon hired him when they saw how strong.

daniel kuritskiy became darrel curtis, and it wasn't as much for them, as for him -- it was easier to let it go and insurmountably harder.

darrel curtis as a father and husband is the happiest man alive. goofy as hell, cracking joke after joke, you'd hear him laughing at least once a day (because what else was there to do but cry). Sometimes he doesn't even take himself seriously. sometimes his wife wishes he would stop joking but remembers it's a necessity. sometimes his kids will get a little concerned at how happy he gets.

daniel kuritskiy will still come out, from time to time, but his son who bears his chosen name is the only one of his children who will ever see it. darry remembers a time, only once, seeing his father cry -- only once, and he never mentioned it, and it was never spoken of -- in his mother's arms, breaking down over his family he had lost, of the terrors he had endured. it was enough left unspoken.

as darrel curtis jr. remains in the synagogue for yizkor (remembrance) every year now at yom kippur, holding ponyboy, steadying sodapop, hearing the old couples (the only others remaining) murmur, too young to stay for yizkor. ain't right, all he can think about while he stares across the room at the parents of a kid he once knew from the playground as chaim brillstein is that those old folks said the same thing about darrel curtis sr., too, never knowing a man named daniel kuritsky.