When I was a little girl, I thought my sister was the Messiah. I’d heard about the Messiah in Sunday School once, but I didn’t know what it was, really, except that it was someone wonderful, someone special, someone important. It was someone to shyly look up to, to follow. The way that Rebecca took control of a game of Barbies, even though she was only two years older than me, telling me what the plot would be, which of the Barbies her Ken was going to fall in love with, and how long we would have to select the wardrobes for our dolls, I felt that she was a strong leader, a princess of playtime. When she created whole worlds out of her imagination, using words that I didn’t know yet, ideas I couldn’t yet think, and taught me how to live in them, she was a sort of a marshal into the ways of childhood and wonder. Not that I always thought Rebecca was perfect. She was, after all, my sister, and she breathed too loudly in her sleep, keeping me awake while she stole covers when we slept in the same bed in our grandparents’ house. Sometimes, I was impatient with Rebecca’s stutter, with the way she took so long to say anything, interrupting herself in her own enthusiasm and inserting unnecessary words and throaty giggles. I especially hated when Rebecca was angry and she would scream at the top of her lungs, sometimes running at me and threatening to hit me, although I knew that she would never really hurt me. I would stand and watch her rage, silently hoping she would direct it elsewhere, until I couldn’t be calm and cool any longer and then I would burst into tears and slam doors and bury my face in my teddy bear’s fur to cry. But when I wasn’t mad at her, and we weren’t pouting about each other behind slammed doors, I knew that somehow, despite all that made me angry about her, Rebecca was absolutely good. *** “Mom, I don’t want any breakfast. I’m fasting today,” Rebecca says matter-of-factly, her skirt awry and her shoes unfastened. She bends over and buckles one shoe, then straightens, throws her hands onto her hips, and with her feet planted firmly on the linoleum, anticipantly chews on her bottom lip and looks fiercely into our mother’s eyes. Mom starts rummaging through the refrigerator, her back to Rebecca. “Okay, sweetie, I know you want to be a part of all of this. Why don’t you just give up candy? Or only have small meals? Here, we have some cheese – will you have a slice of cheese?” She puts the cheese on the counter without turning around. “Or maybe a piece of fruit? Some juice? You don’t have to have a feast, but at least have something. And fix your skirt and put on your shoes, Becks, we have to leave in a minute. Jess, can I pour you some juice? Do you want some toast?” I’m not sure how Rebecca is going to answer, and I want to respond however she does. But I think I should probably answer Mom’s question, so I safely mutter, “whatever.” Mom sighs, pours me a glass of orange juice, and turns around to hand it to me. Rebecca has straightened her skirt and fastened the other shoe, and is walking out the front door. “Where ‘re you going, Becks?” “I’m going to synagogue.” “Becks, you have to eat something.” “You’re supposed to fast on Yom Kippur.” “Rebecca, sweetie, adults are supposed to fast, not kids. You need to eat something. Just have a little something for breakfast. I won’t even make you eat lunch. Come on in, have a piece of fruit or something.” Rebecca and Mom have been having this conversation every year forever, it seems to me. Rebecca always tries to fast on Yom Kippur and Mom always makes her eat ‘a little something’. I’m sure Rebecca is going to give in. I pick up my juice, but I’m going to wait until Rebecca takes the first sip, just in case. Of course if she doesn’t eat, I’m not going to. She doesn’t eat. She yells. “I’m not eating on Yom Kippur. You’re not supposed to eat on Yom Kippur. You’re supposed to tell G-d you’re sorry by not eating. You can’t stop me. I want to fast.” She walks briskly down the driveway, her wild black hair in disarray, the back of her shirt not fully tucked in. Her footsteps on the pebbled driveway seem to echo loudly in the kitchen as Mom leans out the window and yells, “Rebecca, get back here. Rebecca, we aren’t leaving until you drink your juice. Rebecca Doreen Kirzner, you aren’t thirteen yet and I’m not going to let you endanger your health by not having breakfast this morning!” But Rebecca continues to walk toward the synagogue, not even turning her head to acknowledge my mother. When she reaches the end of the street, she turns around impatiently, her arms crossed over her flat chest, and says, “Are you guys coming? We are going to be late for services.” Mom glances at her watch and looks helplessly at Dad who, temper flaring, responds, “Fine. If you want to starve yourself, then starve yourself. I’m not going to deal with this. We’re going to services.” I put down my glass of orange juice without having once sipped it, and follow my parents out the door, running to catch up to Rebecca. I half-walk, half-jog beside her as she fumes, “How could they not let me fast on Yom Kippur? How could they keep me from observing Yom Kippur? They just don’t get it, do they?” I am wide eyed and silent, wondering how Rebecca can stand to make Mom and Dad so mad, and how she knows what is so important to her that it’s worth all of the yelling. I think she is valiant and noble, although I don’t know those words yet, and I am excited that we are going to fast together on Yom Kippur for the first time and be real grown ups. Also, I hope Mom and Dad will forgive us soon. My feet don’t touch the floor in the chairs in the sanctuary, and at the age of nine, I don’t really know enough Hebrew to follow along. I listen to Rebecca as she sounds out the words in the mahsor and watch her finger move along the pages as she earnestly tries to pray. We spend the morning this way, next to our parents, as Rebecca thinks about G-d, and I, mostly, think about Rebecca. Halfway through services, our stomachs begin to growl. I lean toward my sister and whisper, “Hey Becks, wanna go home for a bit?” She bites her lip for a minute, calculating, and decides that G-d will forgive her for taking a break - G-d forgives a lot of things, we’re learning in today’s Yom Kippur prayers. She whispers to Mom that we were going to take a break and will be back in time for evening services. Mom nods her assent. Minutes later, Rebecca and I are on the sidewalk, homebound, and the majesty of Yom Kippur services has completely left us. Our voices get louder and louder, and we start to squeal and to giggle, prancing down the street and complaining that we’re so hungry that we can’t even think. Our words became increasingly exaggerated. “I’m sooo hungry,” I whine, “I wish I could eat a whole dozen scones.” I skip a few paces ahead and jump to face Rebecca. “I’m hungry too,” she responds, grabbing her belly in her hands and bending over to illustrate, “I wish I could eat ten jars of pickles.” I wish she would give in and decide to eat when we get home, but I know she won’t. I play along, but I sort of wish that my sister wasn’t so good all of the time. We unlock the front door and go inside. First, we run upstairs to check on the gerbils and feed them some treats – I’m a little jealous. I think they should fast too, but Rebecca says they aren’t Jewish. When we’re bored with the gerbils we go downstairs to watch TV, but there is nothing on. We settle on Sesame Street, but by the first commercial break we’re at it again: “I’m so hungry I wish I could eat twenty birthday cakes.” “I’m so hungry I wish I could eat five thousand pizzas.” “I’m so hungry I wish I could eat forty million pop tarts.” We climb up the stairs to Rebecca’s bedroom, where we find, in the center of the floor, as if it were waiting for us, a pack of sugarfree gum. “Hey Rebecca, if you chew it but don’t swallow it, does it count?” “I don’t know.” “I’m sooo hungry, Becca, can we just do it? I mean, we won’t be eating anything, just chewing, right?” “I guess.” She isn’t very pleased, she’s suspicious of anything that would break the fast she’s fought so hard for, but our watering mouths have already made the decision for us. She opens up the pack and solemnly hands me a piece. Together, we put the gum in our mouths. By the end of the afternoon, we’ve each chewed four sticks of gum until they’ve entirely lost their flavor. Then, still desperately hungry but wanting to escape temptation, we return to the synagogue for evening services, and to wait out the fast in a safer space. When Mom leans over and asks Rebecca what we did at home, she blushes and whispers, “nothing”, already regretting her gum-eating transgression, that I’m sure she’s already asking G-d to forgive. That evening, we go to Mom’s friend’s house to break the fast. Amid smiling faces attached to bodies high above our heads, we count to three and bite into bagels at the same time, saying “mmmmmm!” too loud. We draw attention to ourselves, giggling as we say, “this bagel is sooo good” “I’ve never had such good food in my life”. “I was sooo hungry”. I strut around the dining room, my glowing face at adult plate-level and nod emphatically when adults ask me, “Did you fast today?” I glance over at Rebecca, who is similarly occupied, and wonder if she is enjoying it as much as I am. I think maybe she isn’t. I wonder what it is that drives her to do these things if she doesn’t even like the way people treat her afterward. What is it that she, blushing and shrugging away the attention, has done today? And why do I think that even though we did the same thing, somehow what she did was better, purer? *** One afternoon, Rebecca and I are lying flat on our backs at the top of the hill in our backyard that we call “The Cliff”. It is at “The Cliff” that, not too long ago, Rebecca has discovered her love of nature, and inspired by Smokey the Bear and the Save the Rainforest materials handed out in school, she has decided to devote herself, at least for the moment, to the task of environmentalism. This is why today we find ourselves covered in dirt, shredding leaves and speaking to each other while holding our noses, giggling at the nasal sounds that we emit. “Rebecca?” I honk, “What’s one thing that you have always wanted to do, but no one thinks you’ll ever do?” She is quiet for a while, watching an ant as it crawls to the end of her hand and then extending a finger to it so it can continue its journey. Finally, she looks up at me, and solemnly pinches her nose to reply, “Be a real environmentalist.” “What does a real environmentalist do?” I ask, pronouncing it slowly so I can take my time to remember each syllable of the impossibly long word. “A real environmentalist knows that she is only an animal.” she responds, nose still held tightly between her forefingers. “Humans are animals.” “No we aren’t.” I am angry now. I know that there is something fundamentally different between me and our cats, Ebony and Snickers, and I hate when my sister is wrong. Messiahs aren’t supposed to be wrong. “Cats don’t use bathrooms.” I shoot back at her, enraged fingers pressing hard upon my nostrils. Rebecca’s eyes flash, and she stands up, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She creeps behind the bushes. By now, in my desperate curiosity, I have abandoned nose pinching. I call out, “Rebecca, where are you going? What are you doing? Becca? Beckie?” A few minutes later, she emerges, triumphant. “I don’t have to use bathrooms either,” she proclaims. Then she plops down on her bottom and scoots down the steep, grassless part of the cliff, so that when she stands up the seat of her pants are covered in mud. I am left spellbound at the top of the cliff, utterly disgusted with the thought of peeing not in a bathroom. It seems so unnatural, so wrong. And yet, Rebecca did this thing because it meant something to her, because she was proving something. I wrinkle my nose, and my stomach feels queasy. I want to go inside, and yet I sit there at the top of the cliff because if my sister can pee in the bushes because she loves the Earth so much, then the least that I can do is sit in nature and try to enjoy it. *** For Rebecca, appreciating nature isn’t just about witnessing it, but about creating within it. She likes to glue leaves onto paper to make bookmarks, plant apple seeds in the backyard, squeeze flowers into vials of water in the hopes of concocting perfume. On the beach, we make sand castles. In the mud, we make mud pies. In the snow, we make snow angels. On mornings when we wake up and there is snow on the ground, the two of us stare out the window, pressing our noses to the cold glass and planning how we are going to create a Winter Wonderland. “Let’s make a giant snowball, so big that we can climb on top of it and sit there”, I suggest. “No, that’ll use up all of the snow!” Rebecca responds. “We want to make sure not to use too much snow, because we want the ground to still be all white when were done. Otherwise it won’t be a Winter Wonderland at all.” I frown. Making a Winter Wonderland with Rebecca is like taking your medicine – I know that she is right and that it will be better if I listen to her, but sometimes I just don’t want to plan at all. I want to go out there and make something big, and not necessarily something beautiful. Rebecca is all about beauty, and all about planning. “We can make a snowman in the front yard. We’ll roll the snow up in big circles starting at the edge of the yard, so that we won’t use any of the snow in the middle and the snowman can be standing in the middle of snow.” “OK” I groan, impatient to go outside. I start drawing self-portraits in the condensation on the window. “In the backyard, let’s try to leave it looking as pure as possible. Let’s just make two snow angels in the middle.” Now, I turn my face from the window and smile broadly at her. I love to make snow angels. “Okay! Let’s do that! Only, let’s start with the backyard,” I say, knowing that we’ll get too cold and we’ll never get to the front yard at all. The way you make snow angels, if you want to make them in a Winter Wonderland, is by tip toeing around the yard’s perimeter, both children stepping in the same places one after the other, so that you don’t make any more footprints than are absolutely necessary. Then, when you find the place where you want the angel, you fall on your back and flail your arms as you stare at the sky and let the snowflakes fall on your upturned face, tickling your eyes, nose, lips. “It feels cold!” “It’s wet!” “It feels like kisses!” “It feels like swimming!” we shout as we flap our arms and legs spasmodically in the frigid whiteness. We flap and giggle and giggle and flap until out of breath we lie panting in the snow, in the middle of the pure white Winter Wonderland, staring up at Heaven and watching our breath come out in cloudy fluffs above us. *** It wasn’t long before I stopped thinking that Rebecca was the Messiah, she was too bossy, to frustratingly precise, to argumentative, to stubborn to be a Supreme Being and instead she must just be a beautiful human and sister, and nothing more. When my religious school teacher told me that the Messiah had not yet come, I wasn’t surprised. Somebody else’s sister could take that role; Rebecca was enough of a handful as she was. But, years later, when I was in sixth grade, my Sunday School teacher told us that he thought anyone might be an angel, and might not even know it. When he said this, something moved within me, conjuring images of my sister lying flat on her back on a winter morning, clad in a thick waterproof Land’s End coat, screaming, “It’s wonderful!” as she wriggled in the powdery snow. At that moment, I was sure that my sister was an angel. Jessica Kirzner spent her childhood in New Jersey, England and Virginia with her older sister Rebecca, her parents, and her dog, Sky. Throughout her life, she has loved and admired her sister, for whom this memoir was written, and they continue to be very close. Jessica is currently an undergraduate student at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, Virginia, where she is majoring in English and Jewish Studies. She teaches religious school and preschool part time, and is active in the University of Virginia Hillel Jewish Student Union and Blue Notes, an a cappella jazz ensemble at UVa. Jessica enjoys singing, playing the guitar, reading, and, of course, writing. She has been writing memoirs for several years, but has never before been published. HOME