"Mother told me that I was supposed to have been a “Frank” to honor my German grandfather. I wondered at times if I was a disappointment to my stylish parents, not having a son. They of course denied this once I got old enough to ask, telling me what a sweet little girl I was with my pleasing disposition. I would learn later on in life that being “sweet” had its price.
I have small glimpses of my mother holding me in the kitchen and when I would cry she would carry me over to a small shelf that held tiny cups and saucers and she would sing to comfort me. Sometimes early in the morning, the sun would beam into our kitchen window in our little house in East Los Angeles, like a golden explosion through the glass. My eyes would focus on the radiant and brilliant light piercing through. It was a magnificent sight and one that would bring me solace in the years to come. In the life that lay before me, I would become a victim of a horrific crime which would engulf me at young and impressionable age and relentlessly prevail through most of my life."