The next thirteen and a half years passed very quickly. The year 1928 was another magical year in the decade, and like every other girl in an all-Catholic school in the city, I had dreamed of other venues of freedom: flappers, parties and all-night drinking, an illegal activity back then. But it was very hard when I was stuck in the room in the attic and only allowed to go down for school and sometimes, if I am lucky, dinner. Oftentimes, I did manage to drown my sorrows in the books the library offered me and nobody even found me there. If Mother had noticed at all, she could have just confined me to my room and denied me dinner as if I've never had that punishment before. I always it escaped because of Maggie and her connections to the lower quarters.

Oh yes, I had been kept by Mother in these trying years. She had been winning the custody battle for a while. By the time I was fourteen, Father, as I found out later, was finding evidence of abuse in the household, which was true to an extent. Although the servants and my stepbrothers were encouraged to hit me every time I stepped out of line or even randomly, I always found a way to get away. The servants actually took pity on me and only hit me in the presence of Mother, never hard. My stepbrothers, however, had taken every chance they had. Another form of abuse Father named was starving: although I had been denied dinner because I fought bitterly with Mother, it was not as bad as he said it was. I was used to it and although I didn't consider this an abuse to me, he did.

I had one weapon against them: I was raising high in school and because of it, I could hide anywhere I wished to and I did just that. It was also a swift way to leave the home and travel, just as I've dreamed of. Just as Mother was becoming excited over the rise of dictatorships and Mussolini and Hitler as she earlier predicted, I was becoming excited over graduating secondary school at fifteen and becoming a military nurse. I had a love of the military at an early age and at nine years old I was in line to be enlisted. The pageantry and order pleased me in this controlling environment. I was thrilled at helping the army with nursing, which was my second love. When I was a small child, I had wanted to help everything and everyone that was hurt and was sullen when I couldn't. As I grew older, I even treated myself at night when I had a rough day with Mother and sometimes when the servants were ordered, against their will, to hurt me.

At the all-girls' school, I had a mentor, Nurse/Major Nancy Donovan-White, the school's soon-to-be-retiring military nurse and social worker. We developed a bond which grew closer than most and much more heartfelt that she expected. She was thirty-one, married and she had a family who loved her. Her husband and young four children often welcomed me to their home whenever I ran away from Mother.

Nancy became the mother I never had felt before and always asked me questions about my life and where I came from. She grew alarmed and frustrated when nothing could be done in my "abuse case," as the school calls it. "You need to stick up for yourself," Nancy said once. "I know you're stronger than they are, Nikki. One of these days, you'll show them." She was the first to call me Nikki and the name just stuck afterward. It gave me a newer sense of identity and not the foreigner like others think I am.

Nancy was also the first to realize I had a gift in writing and gave me my first journal, which was quickly filled with my poetry. It was used later for the war efforts, each with different and exact with its replies, but sadly, each book had been burned by the Army. I hardly remember the first one I had written because of an accident, but I recall a few lines from it: Scars are souvenirs you never lose and the past is never far…did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star? I didn't think that these words would prove visionary. All too soon, I understood the true feeling of deep unconscious, writing from one side of the page to the next.

Mrs. White (she didn't become Nancy to me until much later) had also obtained permission from the nuns of the school to have an army recruited drill me and keep me up-to-date with military tactics, rules and disciple. It was something I enjoyed for a while, despite my rebellious behavior at home. It was becoming a reality: escape the house forever, see the world and settle down…with Father? Scratch that thought. I didn't know where he even was then or even if he was dead or alive. Mother did keep her promise of reminding me of him and his "foolish follies." I paid heed to them as it might be used against her later. Not only that, it gave me thoughts. I didn't know what Father would be like to me and I always wondered if he was just as bad as Mother portrayed him as. And, I thought as I bared another beating late one night in my bedroom on the top floor, if he cared enough, I could keep this evidence for him as he rescues me.

Rescue…it was such an oxymoron to actuality. I had no relief other than my classes, drills and days in the library. Other than home, school was torture after that. I was a loner. After so many years of dealing with Mother, I developed a feeling hopelessness, where, at any given low point in my life, I would become very depressed. When I was younger, it had seemed like the world was on top of my shoulders. Writing and reading relieved me of this feeling and lighten my load.

To everyone around me in the strict atmosphere of school, I had no advantages and people knew who I was as the daughter of a Socialist Jew. Nobody talked to me and bothered me. They knew that to do so would mean swift discipline from my stepbrothers and the girls knew that word came quickly to my house. They all whispered of a spy among them as rumors flew about one girl being beaten by my stepbrothers for befriending me. They always sought to find her out, but to no avail. I personally had no care for who gave out such information (for that matter, I knew not a girl who tried to play nice with me) and grew accustomed to this loneliness and a dark world nobody could share with me.

Those years went by quickly and the time I waited for graduation was the hardest year ever and the wait was monotonous. August, September, October…finally it was February, only three more months to go before I could run off and never be seen again by my family. It required much skill and patience. To a point, I was going to scream because of the tedious waiting. February, a wintry one indeed, tried my endurance. It seemed like spring was never coming. The middle of that month, I remembered, drew over three feet of snow and it became harder to head to someplace other than home. For three days I was stranded at home and afraid to move out of my cold room in fear of being seen. By the thirteenth of February, the snow had cleared enough for me to walk to school, but that day had promised more snow, cold and wind with its threatening clouds and gusty gales coming off from the icy waters. It was unusual weather for this time of year for we usually get rain in the winter because of how close we were to the waters.

That day passed fast, and by the time the bell rang at 1430 hours I ran out the doors and walked the five blocks to get to the library for books to get me through another day at home if necessary. I spent so much choosing out something (I had read so many books at that point and trying to pick another was hard) that I forgot about the time. After grabbing those books for the next day's storms, I realized that it was 1545 hours and time to get home before Mother does. I then ran the last three blocks to get home. After all, I pictured in my mind as I ran, Mother does keep up with the social fury of the city. In getting home before me, she can have an excuse to release my step-brothers on me while she watches in a drunken death stare either later in the evening or seeing its results in the morning.

I wouldn't know in those harrowing moments going home in the deep snow that the next day changed my life forever. It was to be February 14, 1928.

~00~

Ah, Valentine's Day: the lovers' holiday in which those switch love notes and other trinkets to their crushes and the people they love. I care not for the holiday and passed it as every other day. The storm clouds were gathering outside that morning. I knew without a doubt that this day was going to be horrifyingly cold. If only I could have known what would have conspired that day.

That day, something made me wonder why my neck was bothering me, for today seemed to be a normal day. I knew that it warns me of danger (that much I figured when I was a child, always unaware of its impact on my life), but it was unusual that it bothered me then. It was the same routine as every day, I had thought: I had gotten out of bed before anyone else, snuck out when the lights went on in the kitchen and gotten into school at 0630 hours. Of course, I had met Mrs. White ("Slow down sweetheart, you look like you're in a hurry!") at 0700 hours and lessons with her and the military recruited until 0840 hours, and classes took over my mind, etc., etc. It was, all and all, a regular day for me. When 1430 hours roll by, the bell rang and I zipped out of there before all the gossipmongers could come out and stare at me. I went head-on into the busy intersections, to avoid all other people and the cars, and nearly was hit by an on-coming vehicle. I didn't seem to care as I had eight blocks to walk. I wanted to get home quickly because it was going to snow again.

My neck was prickling more than ever before. Why? I wondered. Why it would be when there was nothing to be afraid of except the zooming automobiles and the sloshing water? The last blocks home made me especially jumpy. I knew that there was someone or something behind me so I walked faster. When I walked faster and faster, to get home and skip the library, I felt the prickling in my neck come up to such intensity. I didn't bother to look over my shaking shoulders to see who or what was behind me and I didn't want to know.

About two more blocks to go…I was alone in some deserted section of town, where I usually hopped some fences and stopped to rest before sneaking into the back door of the house. When I stopped however, I dared to look over my shoulder and there was nothing behind me except George, Kurt and Warner.

I became filled with dread and terror.

These next moments went by so quickly that I had no time to think or even fight back and scream for help. Even if I did try, there'd be no one there to help me because there were no people around here to see me. The alleyway was as deserted as a ghost town.

My brothers' next movements indicated something sinister. Kurt and Warner and grabbed me by each side and I dropped my schoolbooks in the snow banks. Both had me slammed against the wall of the nearest building. I couldn't move or cry out even. I knew that it'll be worse if I did. I knew my brothers well.

Warm blood trickled down my neck like rain dripping down the outside of my attic window. I closed my eyes, only hoping that George would help me from this torment. Instead, he threw one hit after another. I should have known better.

More blood and laughing…dragging me down someplace…"No, you can't do this!" I cry out in vain…my books? Yelling…"Jewish bitch!" they scream in my face…more laughing…oh no, not the bloody knuckles…a knife…? My mind was reeling. Everything was a blur and seemed to have come all at once.

"Nikola…see here, Nikki? Nikki, please pay attention! I know the weather outside is distracting with the snow, but this moving plan for the wounded is worse. How would you, as Head Nurse, fix this mess?" Mrs. White handed me a scenario worksheet and I began to look into their complex words, but it made no sense to me. Why would the greatest minds in the military do such a thing as this? Moving wounded to a cave during a bombing. It was unheard of! What would happen if a bomb hit it? There would be a cave-in for sure!

Mother Nature was dumping her fury. The struggle against these three men experienced was for naught. What was the point when I'm just going to die anyway? Who would miss me in this storm? It isn't as if someone would mourn for my loss. My body would be found and people would say how sorry they were that Nikola Michalovich had been killed and left to die in the cold. She might have been taken there, for all they know, and dumped in such an obvious place so nobody could find her. Oh, what a quiet creature she was! The murderers would be gone and nobody will claim her so she'll be buried in some nameless grave.

Suddenly I heard something. "Hey! What the hell are you doing?" The hitting stopped and I was dropped to the ground. I didn't struggle anymore. I couldn't move. Pain rippled in me. I didn't care if I lived or died. I wanted the pain to go away.

"Oh, damn, Ted, she's hurt!" I heard someone say.

Oh, well, it was just some voices. George, Kurt and Warner would just continue anyway, most people ignored them as they beat me in public like every other time. I always escaped somewhat unharmed, but revenge was always behind me. Somehow, though, I felt that this was different than those other times. After I was dropped I heard those footsteps which indicated that to me that someone…more than one someone…was leaving or coming. Who knew? But my inner feelings told me that I was saved.

The last face I saw before I went out was someone I'd thought I'd never see. He was saying something to me, only it seems light years away. His lips were moving but there was no sound. My tunneled vision and deafening ears blocked my senses from knowing the people who saved me.

That face, later I was to know, was that of Robert E. Hogan.