Ursula's Promise: Billy Love's Novels, #5

By Dr. Jean Wolf

Ursula's Promise, the fifth book in the Billy Love Wolf novel series, continues with the saga of the Forgotten Children: Ursula, Wolfgang, Ruth and Renata. It's the sixties, and the children's shared German heritage brings them back to West Berlin and Munich, where the lingering effects of a defeated Nazi Germany and the Cold War with Communist Russia intersects, impacting their lives in ways that are transformative. Held together by love and respect for each other, the four young adults crisscross the world from New York City to Lake Okoboji, Iowa to West and East Germany. Why do they keep secrets? What promises are being made? Each of them has a destiny influenced by the past, their connections with each other leadng to unexpected outcomes in a complex world. Eva Braun, Audrey Hepburn, and Marlene Dietrich return in this novel, playing roles in the young adult's lives, and helping them overcome discrimination and trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr. Jean Wolf
• Release date: Aug 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201398552

Book preview

Chapter 1

Renata

New York City

May 1963

I leaned against the pink floral wallpaper in the hallway of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel and clicked open the gold compact embossed with my initials—R.O.R.—Renata O’Rourke. Audrey had given it to me for my birthday. It was expensive, and the fact that one of the most famous movie stars in the world had chosen it for me...I treasured it.

Peering into the compact mirror, I noted even white teeth, pouty lips, a straight nose with flared nostrils and large, wide-set brown eyes fringed with thick black lashes. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and fingered the lustrous pearls settled at the base of my throat before snapping the compact shut and placing it into my heavily beaded evening bag.

Soft classical music streamed from the speakers mounted in the ceiling and I hummed along as I made my way to Room 108 where Audrey was preparing for the night ahead. My hips swayed and my baby blue tight-fitting satin dress rustled as I approached the doorway.

I raised my manicured hand with the ruby painted nails and rapped on the door.

Good evening, Miss O’Rourke, we have been expecting you. Miss Hepburn is having her hair done.

I nodded curtly to the ancient man dressed in a full tuxedo and brushed past him. Audrey was encased in a white terry cloth robe, seated before a dressing table. An assistant pulled and twisted her dark hair away from her face, preparing to clip it back with a rhinestone clasp.

Audrey turned toward me and motioned me into the room. Renata, come here and sit beside me. I’m so happy you were able to come.

I settled beside her on the tufted ottoman and smoothed my dress over my stockinged legs. My voice lilted. Audrey, my friends are quite jealous that you invited me to be your guest tonight.

Audrey laughed and flung her head back with sudden movement, causing her hair stylist to fumble the jeweled clasp. It’s only fitting that I would invite one of my goddaughters to such a special event. Too bad Ursula could not be here.

I arched my eyebrows. Ursula. She couldn’t be bothered to come back to the city. After all the attention she received from her role in helping the East Germans escape to West Berlin, she had retreated to that damn writer’s workshop in the middle of a cornfield.

Ursula has disappeared into her underground world of poetry and mystery, Audrey. We will have to carry on without her, won’t we? I declared.

Indeed, we will. Hand me that glass of lemon water, Renata.

I clutched the glass and held it out to her. Audrey took a long sip then plucked the lemon from the glass, sucked on it and pulled a face. So sour, but it does the trick. It clears the throat immediately.

Audrey pushed back her chair and stood before the large windows overlooking the lights of the city. Without warning, she began a series of vocal scales.

Her voice was soft—not bad, not great. But her voice was beside the point. It was Audrey Hepburn...and she was singing Happy Birthday tonight to President John F. Kennedy.

I was giddy with excitement, like a school girl. Silently I chided myself. Rise to the occasion, Renata. Just because the most famous movie star in the world is singing for the president of the United States doesn’t mean you have to fall all over yourself. Act sophisticated.

Audrey, you will steal the show tonight. Unlike the disaster that happened last year, I said in a measured voice.

Turning toward me, Audrey nodded in agreement. She flung off her terrycloth robe, revealing a set of lacy underwear and bra, and strode over to the magnificent floor-length beaded black dress hanging on a hook. She was so thin every rib was on full display, yet it was her look, and it never changed.

Audrey sniffed. Renata, Marilyn wore a white gown to sing for the president last year. It was unfortunate that the stage lights lit up her silhouette and displayed her lack of undergarments.

I laughed. Oh, yes, the world saw plenty of Miss Monroe, didn’t they? And understandably, the first lady was furious.

Marilyn was a mess. She clearly was stoned, and that childish voice of hers...I intend to restore some decorum to the event this year.

Audrey’s dresser unzipped the stunning gown and motioned for her to step into it. Audrey shimmied into the high-necked sheath and stood patiently while the gray-headed dresser zipped her up.

Stepping before a full-length mirror, Audrey examined herself from every angle.

You look beautiful, Audrey. All eyes will be on you, I exclaimed.

I’m going to call him Jack, not Mr. President.

Jack? I asked.

Audrey scowled. "Yes, you remember how Marilyn cooed in her simpering voice. Happy Birthday, Mister President...like she was going to fall at his feet and have him ravish her in public."

I smiled. Audrey was clearly jealous of Miss Monroe, although she would never admit it.

Audrey opened a sterling case and tapped out a cigarette. She leaned toward me and I flicked the lighter. She inhaled and blew the smoke into the air.

Audrey looked at me quizzically. Did you know Jack and I dated when he was a junior senator? Before he met Jackie?

How had Audrey managed to keep this juicy bit of news from the family?

Really? It didn’t make the gossip columns, I said.

It was before he made a name for himself. I was smitten, but since I’m not Catholic, his father made Jack break off the affair.

I paused, and then launched the question that dominated the room. And did you have sex with him, Audrey?

Before she could respond, the door to her suite opened and two burly men clad in tight suits entered the room.

We’re here to escort you to the stage, Miss Hepburn, the taller of the two agents announced.

The president awaits us, Renata, shall we depart? Audrey asked, as the dresser placed a mink stole over her shoulders.

Audrey linked her gloved arm in mine. We followed the secret service members down the narrow hallway, into a holding room off the gilded ballroom where President John F. Kennedy was seated with first lady Jackie by his side.

Thunderous applause rang out as a deep voice announced. And now, ladies and gentleman, in honor of the president’s birthday, Miss Audrey Hepburn is here to sing for us.

Audrey whispered in my ear. Wait here for me. When I’m finished singing, I will introduce you to everyone who is important.

The spotlight trained on Audrey and she waved and smiled as she made her way to the stage.

I leaned back against a door, crossed my arms, and plunged into deep thought.

Everyone calls me the good girl, the perfect one who conforms to society’s expectations: attends a prestigious college, dates the most handsome men on campus, knows the correct answer before it’s posed.

If only they knew. I am far from good—I am evil.

Happy Birthday, Dear Jack, Happy Birthday to you, Audrey’s voice rang out.

I put on my mask and emerged into the light.

Chapter 2

Ursula

Lake Okoboji, Iowa

May 1963

The old horsehair stuffed couch dominated the enclosed front porch of the cabin. I sat cross-legged on it, adjusting my body, searching in vain for a comfortable position. Reaching up, I flicked off the overhead light and adjusted my eyes, gazing out the open window. The full moon reflected prisms on the midnight-blue lake. Gentle waves lapped at the wooden docks and rocks lining the shore.

A breeze swept onto the porch and riffed through my dark hair. I leaned back and relaxed, which for me, was a feat. It wasn’t my style to slow down, yet here I was in the middle of the country, tucked away in a beautiful setting, savoring the tranquility.

Ravelstone Cottage was built in the early 1920s, its façade composed of a myriad of smooth, round stones. It sat in a prominent position facing Lake Okoboji, which, according to the Native Americans, meant a place of rest.

The furnishings of the cottage itself were quirky, if a little disturbing. On the day of my arrival, I stepped inside the screened door and encountered a taxidermized great horned owl positioned on a thick branch pedestal, its sharp talons gripping the wood. The thick tufts of feathers perched on its head resembled horns, and its golden eyes stared directly at me, as if the bird was ready to attack. Its feathers had markings that resembled the bark of a tree.

Pivoting away from the owl, I walked into the living room and came face to face with a mounted moose head. Its enormous antlers, along with its long snout and flared nostrils, filled the wall above the stone fireplace. Who would behead a moose and attach it to a wall? My tour of the cottage ended on the porch facing the lake. In the corner was a full-grown brown bear standing upright on his hind legs. His front paws were stretched out before him, as if he was ready to give me a bear hug. His mouth was open, revealing sharp incisors ready to tear apart any prey he might encounter.

Tonight, the bear’s eyes seemed to watch me from across the room. He had become familiar, almost like an old friend. Perhaps I would write a poem about him. Wouldn’t my classmates at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop enjoy something ridiculous?

Nurse May Phillips was asleep in a back bedroom of the cottage. After a whirlwind of intense news coverage following her escape through the tunnel that burrowed between East and West Berlin, we had convinced her to come to the heartland for recovery—for both her mental and physical health. The years she was detained in the notorious prison of East Berlin had taken their toll.

Wolfgang and I were devoted to Nurse Phillips. We were determined to aid in her recovery by giving her everything she needed to do so. After all, she had literally saved our lives when we were children suffering the aftereffects of the trauma resulting from our stay in the notorious Dachau Concentration Camp.

Where would Wolfgang and I be, if not for Nurse Phillips putting our broken minds back together again? I had no doubt about my fate. I would be dead.

I reached over and grabbed the transistor radio off the wicker table. Twisting its dial, I searched for a signal. This late at night, at a remote lake in the middle of the country, you were lucky to pick up anything.

Finally, Walter Cronkite’s deep bass voice pierced the stillness. "Tonight, folks, Audrey Hepburn sang Happy Birthday to President Kennedy at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City. It was a much different event from a year ago, when the actress Marilyn Monroe caused a scene at Madison Square Garden with her sultry version of the song. Miss Hepburn, in contrast to Miss Monroe, was a class act. And Mrs. Kennedy certainly seemed to enjoy the performance!"

I flicked off the radio and sat back. Renata had been in attendance at the president’s party at Audrey’s invitation. Renata—my perfect sister. And why had she been invited while I was snubbed? After all, Audrey was my godmother, too!

I sighed. It was just as well. My first year at the university’s writer’s workshop was completed and I had time to be with Nurse Phillips in a magical place.

Grabbing a beach towel from the railing where it had been hung to dry, I wrapped it around the red bikini I had pulled on when I awoke in the morning. That’s what people did here at the lake. Put on as little clothing as possible, and bake in the sun, then cool off in the blue waters. I experienced a sense of freedom I had never felt before.

I swigged a cold beer and gazed out at the wooden dock in front of me where Wolfgang stood silently. Wolfgang. How could one person survive what he had gone through? Persecuted for being homosexual, he was beaten and whipped and endured forced aversion therapy at Bellevue Hospital. His lover, Timothy, was murdered by corrupt New York City policemen.

Wolfgang and I had a complicated relationship. The bond between us stretched and frayed over the years, only to snap back into place whenever we needed each other. His birthfather sent his mother to the concentration camp where she was ultimately sent to the gas chamber and exterminated. And I, as a young child, witnessed the murder of my parents by soldiers on the day Dachau was liberated.

A light switched on behind me. Nurse Phillips was awake. She implored me to call her May, but I couldn’t bring myself to use her first name. She would forever be my nurse, my therapist, and my healer.

A thin voice called out. Ursula, where are you?

I’m on the porch, Nurse Phillips, come on out.

I heard the thump of a cane on the hardwood floor of the cabin. And then, there she stood in the doorway; her thin nightgowned body outlined in the moonlight.

Come, let’s sit and look at the lake. Can I get you a cup of tea?

I’m perfectly fine. And I can fix it myself, darling Ursula.

I took her hand in mine and led her to a straight back chair. I stood behind her and rubbed her boney shoulders.

Together we were silent for a few minutes, watching Wolfgang as he paced up and down the dock in the moonlight.

Nurse Phillips, you’ve never really talked much about your time in the East Berlin prison. It’s been five months since your escape.

She turned her head and gazed up at me.

Her voice became commanding. Call Wolfgang.

I nodded, opened the door, and ran down the rickety stairs leading to the dock.

Wolfie, Nurse Phillips is ready to talk about her time in the East Berlin prison.

Wolfgang didn’t respond. He slumped against a post on the dock.

What’s wrong? I turned him toward me. His eyes glistened with tears.

I’m sorry Ursula, I’m having a bad day. I saw a man today up at the park. He looked just like Timothy. He was so young and confident.

I pulled him to my chest and wrapped my arms around him. We all have bad days, some worse than others. Let’s go up to the cabin, okay?

He wiped his eyes with his hands, flicking off the tears, and smiled wanly. Without speaking, he trudged up the path to the cabin. I followed, observing the colorful swim trunks that hung loosely on his too-thin frame.

Wolfgang reached the door and flung it open. Nurse Phillips was there to greet him. She kissed him on each cheek and pointed to a chair, instructing him to sit. She was in charge, as always.

Shall we begin? Nurse Phillips announced.

Wolfgang and I looked at each other and nodded in unison. All other thoughts dropped away. We were ready to hear her story.

****************************************

The day after my picture appeared in the New York Times, they came for me.

Who? Wolfgang demanded.

Nurse Phillips leaned against her cane. Just listen, Wolfgang.

I scowled...I was irritated at Wolfgang for the interruption.

Nurse Phillips continued. Her voice was steady. The Stasi, the East German secret police. They believed I was working for them, spying on the United States, gathering their cold war strategies to use against them. But, of course, I was a double agent.

A double agent? I asked.

She removed her glasses and placed them in her lap. Her eyes bored into mine. Yes, I pretended to spy for East Germany, all the while I was working for their mortal enemy, the United States.

Wolfgang leaned back in his chair as his face paled. Clearly, he had no inkling of her role. You were an imposter? Not a nurse, let alone a therapist?

Nurse Phillips stood up, walked behind him, and placed both hands on Wolfgang’s shoulders. Do you think I could pretend to be a competent nurse? No, no, no. I worked as a nurse in a psychiatric facility in Dresden, Germany. The Stasi recruited me to infiltrate Bellevue Hospital—to work with Dr. Salk on the polio vaccine.

Wolfgang flicked Nurse Phillips’ hands off his shoulders and tipped his face up toward her. But?

Listen to me. I had no choice. They deliberately selected me...plucked me out of Dresden and informed me that I would be planted at Bellevue Hospital. They devised an elaborate system for me to transmit information back to them.

I shivered and wrapped the towel tightly against my body. She was placed in an impossible situation against her will by the Stasi.

What kind of information? I asked.

Nurse Phillips sighed. The East Germans were interested in how the live polio virus could be grown and used for biological warfare against the West. I found myself in an untenable situation. How could I be a participant in relaying information about a virus that could wipe out half of the world?

So, you made a conscious decision to work for the West. Weren’t you scared about being discovered? I asked.

Nurse Phillips paused and looked out at the lake. Of course, but I felt I had no choice. My decision to become a double agent also put my husband in grave danger. I had to keep my status a secret...even from him. And because he had polio, he was in a wheelchair. He was defenseless.

Wolfgang jumped up and pounded his fist against the windowsill. You knew the Stasi would come for you, didn’t you? Why didn’t the C.I.A. protect you?

Lower your voice. If the United States interfered, it would have resulted in an international furor, elevating the stakes in the Cold War. It could have turned into a military conflict between our two countries.

Nurse Phillips had sacrificed herself...and her husband.

My voice quivered. But it was so unfair! You were a hero, and the United States allowed the Stasi to throw you into a filthy East Berlin prison. What happened to your husband in the prison?

Nurse Phillips slumped. Suddenly, she looked very old. Lines crisscrossed her forehead and I noted there were purple circles under her eyes. Tears trickled down her cheeks. My husband didn’t survive, and it’s my fault. His health was too fragile to endure the conditions of the prison. And, of course, the guards denied him antibiotics when he caught pneumonia. It was a dreadful situation, watching him die.

I gathered her against my chest and waited for her to continue.

She cleared her throat and managed to eke out words. Can we continue our conversation at another time? I don’t think I am capable of any more discussion tonight.

Of course, let’s all get a good night’s sleep. We can talk later, I said.

Nurse Phillips turned, and without further comment, retreated to the bedroom, with her cane thumping against the floor with each step.

Wolfgang and I watched her retreat.

I rubbed my temples, trying to block out the headache that lodged there.

Damn the Cold War! Damn the Russians! Damn the United States for failing to protect her!

Chapter 3

Wolfgang

Lake Okoboji, Iowa

May 1963

I couldn’t sleep. My mind was too cluttered. Even the sound of the lapping waves against the rocky shore failed to lull me into a state of slumber. Throwing off the ratty quilt, I hauled myself out of bed and went into the tiny kitchen.

It was pitch black and I stubbed my toe on something hard. I suppressed a yelp and felt for the wall switch. A dim light came on. I ignored the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the great horned owl staring at me with its yellow eyes, and picked up a flashlight by the screen door.

Switching the flashlight on, I eased myself out the door and stood on the gravel road behind the cabin. It was deathly quiet, the antithesis of the streets of New York City. A sliver of moon peeked behind clouds giving the thicket of trees a silvery hue. Cabins lined up close to each other at the water’s edge, creating a village of their own.

Where should I go? I turned in a circle, randomly shining the flashlight on street signs. Arnold’s Park swung into view and I made a snap decision to turn in the amusement park’s direction. I shuffled a few feet, then abruptly stopped, listening.

You! a low-pitched voice pierced the night.

I jumped, clutched my chest, and spun around, attempting to pinpoint where the voice was coming from.

Over here, young man.

The tip of a cigarette glowed and a rocking chair creaked back and forth on a nearby porch. I turned toward the voice and trained my flashlight on an old woman. She beckoned me with the crook of a bent finger.

Turn that damn light off, Sonny, she demanded in an accented, deep voice.

German?

I complied like a docile child, climbed the rickety porch steps and stood beside her.

She patted the old rocker beside her. Sit down.

There was something mesmerizing about the old woman. She wore a dark head scarf tied snugly under her chin and a faded house dress. A bottle of scotch sat on a wicker table beside her. A dog was coiled in her lap, soundly sleeping.

Well, are you going to sit down, or not? she demanded.

I eased myself into the chair and rocked back and forth, waiting for further remarks from her. After several long seconds, she spoke.

So, you’re staying in Bobby Billingsley’s cottage.

It was more of a statement than a question.

Yes, he is a friend of a friend, I said.

Speak up, I can hardly hear you, the woman said. She reached across her lap and grabbed my arm, awakening the dog, who then leapt onto the porch and chased its tail.

I cleared my throat. Yes, my friend, Ursula, is a classmate of his.

I’d watch out for him. He’s a bit of a rascal, you know.

Is that right? I smiled. I liked the old lady already, even if she was a busybody.

I’m Inga, she announced, as she threw her cigarette onto the porch and stubbed it out with the toe of her sensible shoes.

Wolfgang.

Volfgang. So, you are German, huh?

You pronounced my name using a V. Obviously you are a German native yourself, Inga.

The tiny dog curled at my feet.... I reached down and scratched his ears.

I’m from Munich. You, Volfgang?

Dachau, I replied in a tightly controlled voice.

Inga paused and leaned in toward me. Her voice hardened. Are you baiting me?

No. I was a child who survived the camp. My mother was Jewish.

Your mother was Jewish.... Inga’s voice trailed off.

You can guess what happened. My mother was exterminated by the Nazis shortly before the Americans liberated the camp.

Inga rocked furiously back and forth. I watched her face turn from a hardened expression to something else that I couldn’t read.

I came to the United States in 1939. I left my husband and everything I owned behind.

Inga lifted the bottle of Scotch to her lips, took a long swig, and handed it to me.

I reciprocated, savoring the burning liquid as it coated my throat.

Leaning forward, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Why did you leave your husband?

She stared at me, wrenched herself out of the rocking chair, and stood over me. Because he was a Nazi SS guard at Dachau Concentration Camp.

I flinched as if struck. Memories came flooding back. Mother being dragged to the gas chamber, screaming and crying. Samuel and others cradling me and soothing me...then hiding me in the infirmary so the guards would be unable to find me.

Lifting the bottle, I drained what was left of the caustic liquid, then I threw the bottle violently against the weathered boards of Inga’s cabin. The sound of it shattering split the night air, eliciting squeaks and frantic movement from nocturnal creatures surrounding the porch. Inga’s dog whimpered.

Inga’s husband likely worked alongside Ursula’s father at Dachau. They were perpetrators of evil, inflicting terror upon prisoners every day. Were the two men friends? Did they act together to torture those who stepped out of line? To tie hands behind a prisoner’s back and lift him on to hooks on shower stalls where his shoulders became immediately dislocated? To leave him hanging, feet off the ground, screaming in agony? As an example. A warning to the others.

A bony hand clamped down on my shoulder. I shuddered and looked up. Her face was inches from mine and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Du warst ein kleiner Junge! Inga stammered.

I was just a little