In Pursuit of Abraham

Editorial Praise for In Pursuit of Abraham

"In writing In Pursuit of Abraham, Francine Fuqua has seamlessly blended ancient and more recent contemporary historical fictive tale of suspense, intrigue and romance. The characters and situation in this story evoke every human emotion, and all the reader can do is hang on for the ride." Harvey Stanbrough, Author, Editor, Writing instructor.

"From war-torn France during World War II’s brutal Nazi occupation to the chaotic excitement of the Middle East during the same period, Fuqua takes us back to the biblical Abraham’s time and the history that ties both her contemporary and ancient characters together. Filled with fast-paced action and stunning description, In Pursuit of Abraham is a magnificent read to be enjoyed again and again. Ellen Phillips, Consumer Watch" columnist, Chattanooga Time Free Press and author of two books.

I was so held by this fascinating story of adventure, intrigue and romance in the exotic setting of the Middle East during one of the most dangerous periods of history, the Nazi’s conquest of Europe. Renee Ford, Ph.D. – Professional Editor.

Full of history, deceit, love and heartbreak, In Pursuit of Abraham is a gorgeous showcase of thrilling adventure and emotional voyage – a beautiful and engaging read." Sandra A. Boehnlein.

"This is a spirited book on the vein of Raiders of the Lost Ark and Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, replete with archaeological explorations in the Holy Land in pursuit of information on the Jewish heroines of the Old Testament and with background events in WWII France, with its many-tentacles German occupiers." – Dr. Paul Barrette, Professor emeritus, University of Tennessee.

IN PURSUIT

Of

ABRAHAM

A NOVEL

By

FRANCINE FUQUA

Member of the Chattanooga Writers Guild and a member of the AFFT

(Association for the Future of Films and Television.)

PREFACE

I flew to my native France in 1980 to visit my maternal grandmother as she was nearing the end of her life. As I was ready to leave to return to America, she handed me a voluminous folder. It contained over 400 typewritten pages in French, yellow with age, many torn, covered with corrections, and strike-outs in ink. She said, This is an unfinished novel that Pépère began writing in 1943 while he was idle by the war. Many pages are missing, many chapters incomplete. I would like for you to finish it and get it published.

I glanced at the title with surprise: From Sarah to Esther – The Great Jewish Heroines of the Old Testament. I never knew my grandmother or her husband, Georges Falcoz-Vigne, to be religious. I did know he was a scholar with an avid interest in ancient history, but his choice of subject for his novel was uncharacteristic of him.

She explained that he had visited synagogues and museums and met members of the Jewish community in Paris, thereby attracting the suspicion and wrath of the SS who, in 1943, were focused on eliminating the Jewish race. Afraid for her safety, my grandfather decided to leave France clandestinely, with help from the French Resistance; he went to the Middle East for a few months to complete his research.

Pépère’s manuscript lay in a drawer in my home for years, as life, work and family took precedence. I finally got around to read his work a couple of years ago and was spellbound. It was written in exquisite French, and I was transported back thirty five-hundred years into the world of Abraham. I simply couldn’t allow this incredible amount of work and beautiful prose to be lost forever. I also realized that in the seventy years since my grandfather had written his manuscript, many discoveries have been made and there have been many books written and movies produced on the subject of Abraham and his clan; it wouldn’t be as relevant today.

Instead I decided to write a novel, loosely based on my grandfather’s own experience. Some sixty-nine years later, on another continent and in another language, part of my grandfather’s work has been published, as he co-authors parts of this book. I have translated more than 25 pages of his manuscript from the French and incorporated them into In Pursuit of Abraham. As you follow the life and love of Abraham and Sarah, you are reading the words written long ago by Georges Falcoz-Vigne. He was only my grandfather by marriage, but I loved him dearly.

Somewhere Pépère must be smiling, happy to get some recognition and perhaps a little sorry that his own experience as he visited the Middle East wasn’t quite as exciting as the protagonist’s in this novel.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express my sincere thanks to all who have contributed in one way or another to this novel. To my husband, Kevin, my rock, the love of my life, who pushed me to write even though it often meant delayed dinners; to my sons Eric and Steve, who never doubted that I would complete this work; to my best friend, Barbara Loos, who read this manuscript as it progressed, for her sustained interest and valuable critique; to my dear sister-in-law, Sandy, whose enthusiasm for this story kept me on track; to my neighbor and friend, Dr. Renee Ford, who edited the first version and encouraged me to lessen my profuse use of commas; to Ellen Phillips, a weekly columnist for the Chattanooga Times Free Press, who edited my second rewrite; to Dr. Paul Barrette, Professor Emeritus at the University of Tennessee in romance languages literature and medieval culture, for providing some editing and suggestions about historical facts; finally, to Harvey Stanbrough, who edited my final rewrite. I have learned much from him and this novel is much better because of him.

Chapter One: A Dilemma

Paris, November 1943

The pale October sun disappeared behind the rooftops and the graceful steeple of St-Eustache church. A shiver ran between Suzanne Moncel’s shoulders and down her back. She closed the window and went to the stove to heat water for a cup of tea, only to discover the canister was almost empty. Georges will need to make his black market run soon, she thought. A loud knock at the door startled her. Her husband wasn’t due back before nightfall, and visitors were rare these days.

She edged the door open and her heart sank as she stared into the faces of two German officers and a short, stocky man whose face was almost hidden beneath a large felt hat.

We’re here to see Dr. Moncel, said the short man, obviously French.

What’s this about? Who are you, Monsieur?

"I’m Gaston Berger, Madame Moncel. We need a few minutes with your husband."

She recognized him as he lifted his head. Mr. Berger had been a philosophy professor at the university of which her husband was president in Orléans. What’s he doing here with two German officers?

Why are you here? You work for the Germans now?

The Frenchman looked away in obvious discomfort. I’m here as an interpreter, Madame, and yes, I do work for the Germans. I’ve a family to feed. When the university closed after the bombardments, I had to find other employment. I’m sure this is only a misunderstanding that can be cleared up promptly if we can talk to Doctor Moncel.

Suzanne didn’t see the need to let the three men know she spoke fluent German. Tell the officers my husband isn’t here; I don’t know when he’ll return. Why do they want to speak with him?

The Frenchman stammered. There’re reports he’s involved with Jews. The SS isn’t very patient and this is serious. You must tell him to contact their headquarters at once. He handed her a card. Here’s the address.

Tell the officers I’ll have my husband get in touch with them when he returns, but I’m not sure when that’ll be.

Gaston Berger turned to the officers and told them in rather poor German, The woman says she has no idea when her husband will return. I believe she’s lying.

Suzanne brushed a strand of hair from her forehead to conceal her anger, but since she pretended not to understand German she ignored the Frenchman.

The officers looked at her with cold, steely eyes, pushed past her, and searched the apartment thoroughly, looking under the bed and behind the curtains. The door to her husband’s office was locked. They kicked it open and went in, but came out quickly and spoke tersely to the Frenchman.

Gaston Berger turned to Suzanne. They say your Jew-loving husband must come to their headquarters as soon as he returns or we’ll be back.

The Germans snapped their heels together and left, followed by the Frenchman.

Suzanne’s legs felt like cotton beneath her and her mouth was parched. She sank into the sofa. This is a horrible mistake. We don’t know any Jews. But she suddenly realized that she’d never bothered to ask her husband what he did during all those hours behind the closed doors of his office, or where he went when he left the apartment all day, as he had today.

She walked to the window to see whether the Germans were waiting for him in front of the building, but the boulevard was deserted. The only signs of life were filtering up from the bar down the street, no doubt full of German soldiers and dissolute French women she would rather not think about.

Her thoughts returned to her husband. Georges isn’t a political man. Surely, he hasn’t involved himself with Jews, especially now that they’re relentlessly pursued by Hitler’s army and face deportation or worse.

They spent their evenings with a few neighbors, huddled around a radio listening to the British Broadcasting Company to find out what was happening on the many fronts of this horrible war. In order to weaken the German occupying forces, British and American planes regularly dropped bombs on France’s airports, industrial centers, railways, and ports. Germany responded. Dunkerque, Le Havre, and Nantes were all but destroyed. France was in ruins.

I must concentrate on something else. She got up and began to clean their apartment. She loved its high ceilings, wide windows, intricate moldings, and gleaming hardwood floors. The building was originally a luxurious private residence built in the nineteenth century and just a short walk from Notre Dame, the Sainte Chapelle, the Louvre and the Tuilerie Gardens. But she missed the spacious home and lovely gardens they’d left behind in Orléans. German officers were presently occupying it. What will be left of it after the war? After the war . . . will this war ever end?

When the Americans had landed on the North African Coast in December 1941 following the attack on Pearl Harbor, hope that the nightmare would soon end had run high. Now, two years later, the war still raged and Germany seemed invincible.

She heard footsteps. Have the Germans returned? The door opened. Thank God. It’s Georges!

Her husband entered and went directly to his office, unlocked a drawer and placed a large folder inside. She followed him.

Gaston Berger was here this afternoon.

He looked up in surprise. Gaston Berger . . . Professor Berger? Why would he—

He brought two German officers with him. Suzanne searched her husband’s face for any sign of fear but saw only surprise.

What did they want?

"They suspect you of being a Jew sympathizer. Why on earth would they think that?

He sat down at his desk and wiped his brow. I’ve been visiting a few synagogues and the Jewish museum, but it’s strictly a research project. I don’t see why that would upset anyone.

Why are you visiting synagogues? What are you doing, Georges? You’re not religious. Why would you visit a synagogue?

Right now I’m hungry. Please, let’s eat dinner and allow me to rest a few minutes. I walked a lot today and I’m tired. I’ll tell you about my project after dinner. Suffice it to say that you’ve nothing to worry about. What’s on the menu tonight?

She couldn’t believe it. Was he so naïve, so disconnected from the rest of the world, that he didn’t see the danger facing them? How could he think of food when the German police were hunting him down to do God knows what?

She remained calm as she placed a steaming bowl of cabbage soup in front of him. We need some food. Our rations won’t be distributed for another four days and we’re out of everything. Can you do a black market run soon?

I will, Chérie, I will. I would have done so already but my contact person is ill. We need to be content with what we can buy with our ration stamps for a few more days.

Be content with those horrible rations? You can’t be serious. I can’t live without my hot tea, there is no sugar left, I’ll not touch that frightful bread made of sawdust, the flour full of bugs and—

Suzanne, ninety per cent of the French population survives on what their rations can buy. We’re among the fortunate few who can afford to go to the black market, and at great risk I must point out. Surely you can manage a few days without your luxuries.

Tears filled her eyes. Luxuries? He really was out of touch with reality; they did have it a little better than most families, but they hardly lived in luxury.

There was a knock at the door and Suzanne thought the Germans had returned, but it was only a neighbor who told them that they would turn their radio on to the BBC in a few minutes if they wished to join them to listen to the latest news.

Georges offered his arm. Are you ready, Chérie?

I don’t care about that radio or the news. It’ll be the same as yesterday: bombs, casualties, shortages, and deserters. I’m sick of the whole thing. What I really want right now is to hear about your involvement with Jews.

All right; we’ll talk after I listen to the news. At least here in Paris we can do that without fear of reprisal.

He reminded her that in Orléans they had to hide the radio under the cabbage patch in the garden. Radios were supposed to be turned in to the Boches along with anything else that could be melted to make bullets. At least, in Paris they didn’t have to concern themselves with that or with the nine o’clock curfews.

How could she forget the curfews? The German army occupied most cities. Their planes were lined up in the airports; their tanks occupied the town squares; their truck convoys were parked on the roads. The Germans didn’t want the Royal Air Force or U.S. planes to know they were flying over a city so they required total darkness at night.

One night they were eating a late supper and didn’t realize the time to extinguish all lighting had passed by just a few minutes. A German soldier, standing in the street below, shot out their light bulb, shattering the window. It had taken her hours to recover.

Suzanne turned away. You go alone. I’m not feeling well. We’ll talk when you return. Give my best to the neighbors.

As soon as he left the room she lay down with a book, trying to occupy her mind with something other than the war.

When he returned she was fast asleep and her book lay on the floor. Georges looked at his wife, so vulnerable curled up on the sofa. Even though dark circles lay beneath her eyes, her skin glowed and her dark auburn hair remained thick and luxuriant despite the few silver strands. At nearly fifty she still had the figure of a young girl, slender and supple with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. She still looked quite beautiful.

As he observed her, he was surprised to sense a tenderness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He didn’t know when the feelings they shared had changed from love to indifference, nor could he recall the last time they’d made love. Was it months ago? Years ago? They had so little in common. She lived in the present and the future and her passion was politics. He loved ancient history. She looked forward, and he looked backward; they seldom talked anymore. She didn’t understand how he could spend so many hours studying lost civilizations when so much work was needed to tackle the chaotic world they now lived in. Each passing year had widened the gulf between them. He wondered if this happens to all marriages after twenty years.

Georges worried as he gazed at his wife. She would have difficulty accepting what he had been doing these past few months. He decided to let her sleep and to put off the inevitable confrontation until the next day. He covered her with a blanket and went to his office, closing the door behind him.

The sun was shining as they sat down to breakfast the next morning; another crisp fall day in Paris. Georges smiled at his wife with reassurance. I didn’t want to wake you up last night. You looked so peaceful. There wasn’t much to report on the news anyway. There’s talk about Churchill, Roosevelt, and Chiang Kai-shek meeting together in Cairo for a conference sometime next month. Maybe there’ll be some resolution to liberate France.

Suzanne handed him a cup of coffee. Please, tell me why you’re visiting synagogues.

Well, I decided to begin the novel I’ve always wanted to write. It requires a lot of research. I’ve been visiting museums, libraries, old churches and synagogues for almost three months now.

Suzanne stared at him in surprise. Oh, you’re writing a novel. What’s your novel about? And what does it have to do with Jews?

"The title of my manuscript is From Sarah to Esther. It’s about the great Jewish heroines of biblical times."

Suzanne’s mouth opened in astonishment. You can’t be serious! I know you have a passion for ancient civilizations and writing a novel seems like a great idea while you’re idle, but why would you choose the Old Testament? Are you out of your mind? Why not write about the Romans or the Greeks? Anyone can read about the Old Testament in the various bibles published in many languages. It won’t exactly be new material. What’s the matter with you?

Would she ever understand? He had to try. Much more is now known about biblical times. When cuneiform and hieroglyphs writings were deciphered a few decades ago, we learned how the tribe of Abraham lived, what people ate, how they dressed, and the tools they used. These are fascinating details that will bring the characters in the Bible to life.

Suzanne shrugged. If you’re interested in that sort of thing, I suppose.

He hid his frustration. I want to write this book based on the women’s point of view. That’s never been done. These were exceptional women, Suzanne, and they deserve their place in history. There’s evidence their lives were profoundly human and they were very much involved in the key events of their time.

Suzanne made a dismissive gesture. Women are always an important factor in the daily lives of a people. Nothing new there.

Her husband continued. I’ve also visited several archaeologists. Their recent discoveries in Egypt, Palestine, Mesopotamia and other sites are amazing and seem to support some of the events depicted in the Bible. My book will cover a lot of new material, believe me.

You’re obviously passionate about this, Suzanne said. I didn’t think you believed in the Bible. What’s gotten into you? You see nothing wrong in writing a book about Jewish history at a time when the Nazis are all about their extermination? More than seventeen thousands of them were arrested in Paris in July last year, never to be heard from again. Do you know how many people have been arrested in France because they helped Jews hide or escape?

Georges shook his head sadly. "I know . . . too many, one of my colleagues among them, but—"

Suzanne pressed on. Don’t you remember what happened to the tailor who lived three doors down from us in Orléans? Someone on our street turned him in to the Germans and the next thing we knew he and his family were dragged out of their home and thrown into a truck; the following day the Germans returned to pick up all their belongings.

Of course, I remember, but—

Georges, you’re putting us in terrible danger. I can’t believe you’d be so insensitive. The SS will not even give you a chance to explain, nor will they care. Disseminating details about the Jews’ origin will be considered inflammatory propaganda. She turned her back and slammed a towel on the stove.

Georges didn’t know what to say, but he knew he couldn’t abandon his project just because the Germans wouldn’t approve or Suzanne was apprehensive. The more involved he became in his research, the more he intended to finish it.

Maybe we need to go back to Orléans, she suggested. I’m sure the SS will return looking for you. I’m terrified. How could you do this to us?

I’ll explain the situation to the SS, Suzanne. I’m certain it’ll be all right. Would you like to see what I’ve written so far? I’ve also acquired very old maps. I still have a long way to go, but I think you’d find Sarah’s life story fascinating.

She glared at her husband. "No, I want nothing to do with it, and if the Germans return, I’ll pretend that I know nothing at all about this project of yours. You seem to have given little thought to how this might affect my position with the Orléans newspaper. I’m still on their editorial staff, remember? Your head’s in the clouds as usual. I regret to tell you the women of the Bible are of no interest to me whatsoever." She stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

Early the next morning Georges Moncel left the apartment for an appointment with his friend Jean Breton, one of the curators at the Louvre. He walked down Boulevard Sebastopol and, rather than turning right on Rue de Rivoli, he continued a little farther until he reached the Seine. On his left, the Ile de la Cité with its magnificent monuments and bridges was spectacular. As usual, the sight warmed his heart. As he followed the river in the direction of the Louvre, the war seemed far away.

He entered the museum through a side service entrance where a young woman was sitting at a desk in the dimly lit hallway.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I’m doctor Moncel. I’m here to see Mr. Breton."

Bonjour, Monsieur. He’s expecting you but he’s still engaged with a prior appointment. He’ll be with you shortly. May I offer you some coffee?

Non, merci. He sat down and picked up a magazine.

The receptionist stared at him, but he didn’t notice. Where have I seen him before? He looks familiar and so handsome. I know I’ve seen him, but where? She kept looking at him. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His hair was black and slicked back, with just a hint of silver around the temple. But it was his eyes that attracted her attention; they were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. A trimmed mustache gave some dignity to his sensuous mouth. He looks like a movie star. Then she knew who he reminded her of. She’d seen an American film ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ several years before. The main actor was Marlon Brando, but it was his co-star who had left a big impression on her. His name was Clark Gable. He’d made another film at the start of the war—‘Gone with the Wind’—but it hadn’t yet been made available in France. She couldn’t wait to see it. Yes, he looks like Clark Gable . . . not quite as dapper as Clark Gable, but rather reserved and dignified.

Her reverie was interrupted by a ring from her boss who was ready to receive the visitor.

Georges followed her through an interminable hallway. He noticed that the administrative offices of the Louvre didn’t have the grandeur of the exhibition rooms open to the public.

They reached the curator’s office; he was standing at the door and invited Georges in. Tall and slim, Jean Breton had a mop of unruly red hair, bright blue eyes, thick eyebrows, and an open, friendly face covered with freckles. He indicated a chair. Have a seat, Georges. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’ve found a lot more maps for you, as well as a list of all the archaeological sites that’ve been excavated so far in the Middle East. The war has slowed things down, but I think I’ve enough material here to help you define the region as it was in Abraham’s time.

Georges sat down and smiled broadly. I’m so grateful for your help, Jean. It makes things much easier for me.

No problem. As you know, I’m quite knowledgeable about the area, having lived there for several years while I was an assistant to Professor Montet, the renowned archaeologist. Alas, now that I’m married I’ve had to abandon my nomadic ways. Working in the Louvre is as close as I can get to ancient civilizations.

Georges laughed. Being married does change things.

Jean shook his head and went on. "Doctor Pierre Montet, my mentor, is now Professor of Egyptology at the University of Strasbourg; he visits here as often as the war permits. Should he come soon, I’ll ask