The Minister's Secret: A Guillermo Lombardo Mystery in Paris

By Rodolfo Peña

July 16th, 1942

André Dumont is a collaborationist who has made a fortune buying art and valuables from Jews who sell their collections and heirlooms at ridiculously low prices in order to quickly obtain money as they attempt to escape from Europe. Dumont has befriended the Schwartzmanns so he can evaluate their art collection. He not only becomes a “friend of the family,” but he becomes the lover of the Schwartzmanns’ eldest daughter, Anna.

André Dumont, using his influence and friends in the Nazi hierarchy in Paris, manages to get the Schwartzmann family listed for deportation. He wants to rid himself of any person who can claim the art he plans to have “confiscated” from the Schwartzmanns. The Schwartzmanns are arrested, but Anna, who has been living with Dumont, escapes the round-up. Dumont denounces his lover to the Nazis in order to rid himself of the last person who may lay claim to the Schwartzmann collection.

Present Day

After her mother dies, Mimi is putting away her mother’s things and she discovers that the woman who she thought was her grandmother was not her biological grandmother. Her real grandmother’s name was Anna, someone who, along with all of her family, died in the Nazi death camps. She comes to know all of this through Anna’s diary. In it, she finds out that her family’s art collection was stolen and she decides to embark on a quest to recover it.

In Paris, Edouard Dumont, son of André Dumont, is the French Minister of Culture. He desperately needs money to finance his political career and save the financially struggling family business, a huge art gallery and auction house, from bankruptcy. He wants to sell the art his father left him, art stolen from the Jews.

Edouard Dumont’s and Mimi’s destinies are about to cross as part of her plan to find out what happened to her family’s art collection, Mimi gets a job at Edouard Dumont’s art auction business. While working there, Mimi discovers that some of the art that will be sold at auction has very shady provenance. Could this be part of her family’s collection?

Enter Guillermo Lombardo, a retired police inspector, who rents Mimi’s Paris apartment for a week and finds himself romantically entangled with the woman.

Things soon take a turn for the worst for Lombardo. Upon his arrival in Brittany to see friends, a policeman shows up to question Lombardo. It seems Mimi has been reported missing and Mimi's friend, Sophie, has been found strangled in her own apartment.

As Lombardo was the last person to see Mimi before she disappeared, the police consider him a suspect in Mimi's disappearance. To clear his name, Lombardo must find his missing lover, and stay one step ahead of a vicious killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611874501

Book preview

Epilogue

The Minister’s Secret

By Rodolfo Peña

Copyright 2012 by Rodolfo Peña

Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Rodolfo Peña and Untreed Reads Publishing

An Inconsequential Murder

Un Asesinato Inconsecuente

Venus of the Metro

http://www.untreedreads.com

The Minister’s Secret

Rodolfo Peña

Part 1: 1942–1962

Chapter 1: A Night of Terror

The pounding on the door was insistent and threatening. The sound traveled through the house, rushed up the stairs, and barged into the master bedroom, waking up Monsieur Schwartzmann and his wife. Monsieur Schwartzmann got out of bed, put on his robe, and hurried out into the hallway in his bare feet.

The soldiers in the street, their guns at the ready, looked up as the lights in the third and second floors of the elegant house of the 16th Arrondissement came on.

The pounding on the door grew louder and shouting in German and French could be heard between the bouts of thumping as Monsieur Schwartzmann hurried down the stairs. When he opened the door German soldiers rushed into the house, nearly knocking him down as they brusquely brushed past.

An SS officer, who held a gun in his right hand, asked in accented French, Qui d’autre est dans la maison? Monsieur Schwartzmann answered that only his wife and his aged mother-in-law were in the house.

As the soldiers ran about, looking into the various rooms, breaking closet doors open with the butts of their rifles, the SS officer said, "Tous les trois, vous venez avec nous."

Monsieur Schwartzmann started to protest saying that it was very late for them to leave the house, that it was almost midnight, and that his aged mother-in-law was a frail woman, who was ill.

The German SS officer turned and pointed his gun at Monsieur Schwartzmann. In a cold, menacing tone he said that he was not asking them to come along, he was ordering them to do so.

Monsieur Schwartzmann nodded and went upstairs. In the bedroom his wife was still sitting in bed—a look of fear and alarm distorted her usually calm face.

He sighed and said in resignation, Ils sont venus pour nous. Ils sont enfin ici. They had indeed been expecting this day to come since insistent rumors had started circulating in the Jewish community that Jews, especially the foreign Jews that had fled to France from Germany, Poland, and other European countries, were to be deported.

When she heard her husband’s words, Madame Schwartzmann uttered a cry, which she muffled with her hand. As her husband had said, the dreaded moment had finally arrived, and although expected, it was no less terrifying.

Down in the street, the buses conveniently provided by the Parisian Transport Company were moving into place to receive people. Their windows had been sealed and curtained. Things were to be done with certain discretion, it was said.

The French policemen, the so-called guardians of the peace, advised the people that were being led from their homes into the buses that they were to turn off all electricity, gas, and water services, and that the keys to their homes or apartments were to be left with the appropriate concierge or a neighbor.

Tu ferais mieux de t’habiller chaudement, chérie, advised Monsieur Schwartzmann, handing her a thick coat that would protect her from the cold, wet night. He looked out of the window at the commotion below. Je suis sûr qu’ils vont nous prendre dans un de ces autobus, he added, nodding toward the buses that occupied the street in front of his house. He could see the other people that were already being herded into them, as surely they would be.

As his wife started to dress, he said, Je vais aller réveiller votre mère; il semble qu’ils veulent qu’elle vienne aussi. He left to wake up his mother-in-law and help her dress.

When Monsieur Schwartzmann, his wife, and his mother-in-law walked out of the house, they saw that the soldiers were going only to certain houses in the neighborhood, breaking down the doors or barging in when these were opened. They pushed and bullied all the people in the selected houses into the buses. He recognized several of them. They were, of course, all Jews.

The houses that were left undisturbed were dark and silent, as if oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in the street.

With the help of a couple of the men who were already in the vehicle, Monsieur Schwartzmann first got his mother-in-law up into bus, the and then his wife followed. He was about to hand a small suitcase to his wife when a figure standing in the darkness of a doorway gestured to the soldiers standing on either side of the bus’ door. One of the soldiers stepped forward and said something in German to Monsieur Schwartzmann. At the same time, the other soldier yanked the suitcase from his hand.

Monsieur Schwartzmann started to protest but the first soldier shoved him with his rifle and yelled at him in German. Monsieur Schwartzmann raised his hands as if in surrender and then climbed into the bus, leaving behind the little suitcase into which he had hurriedly packed his shaving kit, a few clothes for his mother-in-law and his wife, and a bundle of Franc notes.

In the bus, Monsieur Schwartzmann sat on the cold seat next to a neighbor whom he only knew by sight. Où vont-ils nous emmener? he asked his neighbor; but the man only shook his head slowly and said he didn’t know where they were being taken.

Mais je peux vous assurer une chose: nous ne reviendrons jamais ici, added the neighbor. And he was right: none of the Jews that left the 16th Arrondissement that night of mid-July, 1942, ever returned.

A few minutes later, after every Jew in the neighborhood had been herded into a vehicle, orders were shouted by the German officers, a couple of soldiers jumped into each of the buses, their doors closed, and the buses started off.

Monsieur Schwartzmann leaned over to his wife and discreetly said to her in German-accented English, Not a word about our children. Not to anybody, Jew or otherwise; do you understand?

She nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. Several of the women in the bus were softly sobbing; Monsieur Schwartzmann was thankful for the absolute darkness produced by the window covers—it mercifully kept his wife from seeing the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

As soon as the buses were away, the man who had been standing in the darkness of the doorway walked across the street and signaled to the French policemen who had also been standing by, watching as the Germans and their French colleagues rounded up the Jews. Accompanied by two of the uniformed gendarmes, he retrieved the keys from the non-Jewish housekeeper, who was standing shivering by the main entrance. He told her that her services were not needed any more because the house was now confiscated property, so she should go home. He said to one of the policemen, Dites-leur de préparer notre camion. The cop ran off to call up the vehicle as ordered.

André Dumont, for that was the man’s name, entered the Schwartzmann’s home, put on a pair of black leather gloves, and opened the door that led from the reception room into the study. He turned on the lights and slowly walked around looking appreciatively at the elegant furniture and fine carpets that covered the floor. He knew the elegant home well, since he had visited the Schwartzmanns quite often. He stood in the middle of the study and smiled as he saw his thin, elegant figure reflected on the black enamel of the piano. He then turned to each one of the magnificent modern paintings on the walls and his lips moved in silent evaluation of their worth. Deux cent cinquante mille francs suisses, au moins, he said, whispering the amount.

Two heavy-set men dressed in blue overalls came through the study door and announced their arrival, "Nous sommes ici, Monsieur Dumont."

Bon, he said, and, demonstrating his great familiarity with the house, he quickly moved from room to room, pointing to each of the paintings individually, saying, Ceci et ceci et cela…

As Dumont singled out each work of art, one of the heavy-set men stepped forward and took the painting from the wall. The other one rushed out and whistled to someone. Moments later, two more men in overalls came in carrying a crate. They quickly took the selected paintings and carefully put them into the crate, sliding each one into an individual slot and covering them with special packing material once the crate was full.

Monsieur Dumont moved rapidly through the house, pointing at paintings, sometimes at objects, each of which the men took away and stored in crates and boxes. As the containers were filled, they were nailed shut and taken to the waiting truck.

When Dumont was done at the Schwartzmann’s house, he went on to two other houses on the block. Again he inspected paintings and objects and looked for jewelry. He took only the very best, carefully separating the paintings into various schools or countries of origin and period. He did the same with the objects and jewelry. He was obviously an expert, knew the houses well, and did not hesitate when judging a piece.

When his work was done, he called the captain of gendarmes and told him to post one uniformed officer in front of each of the confiscated properties. No one was to enter the houses without his express permission. If any relative, friend, or claimant came to any of the buildings, they were to be arrested and presented before the Chief of Police immediately.

The gendarme snapped a salute and said, Oui, Monsieur Dumont.

Monsieur Dumont climbed into the passenger seat of the truck that was now heavy with loot, and told the chauffeur to drive on. He directed him to a warehouse located on the Rue St. Isaure, just behind the boarded-up Montmartre Synagogue in the 18th Arrondissement. As the men unloaded the truck, he smiled—perhaps revelling in the irony of the location.

Later on that night, as he sat in his office writing out a detailed list of the works of art and objects that had been confiscated, the door opened and the German SS officer who had been in charge of rounding up the undesirables came in and said, Alors?

Monsieur Dumont held up the list he had been compiling and said that the Field Marshall would be pleased with the shipment that was being prepared.

Combien de tableaux et autres objets y a-t-il? asked the SS officer.

Monsieur Dumont said that there was a total of one hundred and twenty three pieces in six crates. He said that most were by minor Flemish, Italian, and even some German artists, but that they were of excellent quality and were prime examples of sixteenth and seventeenth century art. There was also a large box in which he was including some jewelry and other valuable objects as well.

J’ai compris qu’il y avait neuf caisses en tout, said the SS officer.

Monsieur Dumont agreed and said that indeed there had been nine cases, but the works of art, if they could be called that, in the three remaining crates were definitively entartete Kunst, degenerate art, and that those boxes had been marked as that. They would be dealt with as directed by the Reichskulturkammer, the Reich Culture Chamber.

The SS officer nodded and smiled conspiratorially. By Monsieur Dumont’s words he understood that the degenerate paintings would be sent to Switzerland to be auctioned off, like a lot of other such paintings had been. A few months before, a directive had been issued that ordered that all such art and objects where to be sold and that the money should be deposited in Swiss accounts that were used to finance the German war effort.

Before the deportations started, Monsieur Dumont had been doing business with the Jewish community for months, convincing owners that they were better off selling their paintings to him so they could get away safely—either in the boats going to the Americas from Marseille and Lisbon, or at least across the border to the unoccupied part of France.

Of course, he only paid the owners twenty-five percent of what the paintings were worth in the markets of neutral countries like Switzerland; so, he had amassed a huge fortune that he safely deposited in a Swiss bank.

Dumont was not alone in profiteering from the high-pressure sales applied to wealthy Jews and other persons being threatened by deportation and arrest. Hundreds of politicians, bankers, and other powerful or rich individuals used their influence and money to appropriate art and other valuable property for themselves. From Hermann Göring to the German banker Alois Miedl, and their counterparts in Holland, Italy, Poland, and other European countries, private Jewish art collections ended up in the hands of these scoundrels and profiteers.

The case of the Schwartzmann’s had been a bit different. Monsieur Schwartzmann had refused all offers, not only from Dumont, but from other speculators. I’d rather burn the things than let these damned thieves profit from them, he told his wife.

But, Dumont was in the know. He had friends in the Vichy government that told him that the pogroms were coming, so it was just a case of waiting for the right moment to denounce the Schwartzmanns, and then he would not even have to pay the customary twenty-five percent. And, of course, there was the added bonus of Anna.

Anna, Monsieur Schwartzmann’s oldest daughter, had become Dumont’s lover the year before. They had met in 1940 when Monsieur Schwartzmann, having heard of how things were going for the Jews in Germany and other places, and alarmed by the invasion of Poland and France’s declaration of war against Germany, had begun to look for a safe place to store his collection in case he decided to leave the country.

Monsieur Dumont was one of the gallery owners with proper installations and proper connections, who might be able to keep the paintings safe—for a reasonable price—if need be.

From the first visit Monsieur Dumont made to the Schwartzmann’s home in order to evaluate the collection, he had been smitten by the dark-haired, blue-eyed 22-year-old beauty who sat in the far corner of the sitting room, smoking a cigarette, and smiling at him in a way that said, I know you are bowled over by me but I am still deciding what I am going to do about you.

What she decided to do was visit him in his gallery to say that her father had determined not to store his collection, but to wait and see if his mother-in-law’s health got better so they could move with all of their belongings to America.

Monsieur Dumont said he was sorry to lose the business, but she would more than make it up to him if she would have dinner with him that night. A week later they were in bed together in a house that Monsieur Dumont owned in a discreet part of a Parisian suburb, and in which he, from time to time, entertained the several lovers he had had throughout his married life.

When their relationship became known to her family, Monsieur Schwartzmann demanded that Anna not see André (for by then she was on a first-name basis with him, of course) again. She refused to give him up, and when she told André Dumont of the spat with her father, he suggested that she leave her father’s house and move into the house in the suburbs.

When Monsieur Schwartzmann threatened André Dumont with exposing his relationship with Anna to Dumont’s wife and family, Dumont had no choice but to do something drastic. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow his wife to divorce him; after all, she was due to inherit a sizable fortune. And his standing with his friends and colleagues, not to mention the German authorities that were now in command in Paris, would be ruined.

The roundups slated for July 1942 were a perfect solution: the Schwartzmanns would be gone, their collection of paintings would be his, and he would now have Anna for as long as he wanted—or as long as it was safe to keep her. If things got difficult with the Germans and he had to give her up, well, it was not his fault that the Nazis were Jew-haters. She would be, as he said to a close friend, just another victim of history.

Chapter 2: A Bearer of News, Good and Bad

The day after Monsieur Schwartzmann and his family were arrested, André Dumont went to see Anna, who was now living in the suburban hideaway. She had been busy buying furniture and generally making the place livable because before she moved in just the bedroom, where she had met with Dumont for their love-making, had been furnished. She had moved into the place in the suburbs just a week before her parents had fallen victim to the roundups.

When he came in, she was sitting in the small study writing into her diary. She wrote daily entries because, as she had often commented to Dumont, she sensed that the events in Germany and other parts of Europe were signaling a momentous change in history. She had also expressed fear that those events would one day overtake her. She said she did not know how or when that would happen, but she wanted to leave her thoughts and description of her disquiet to someone, some other of a future generation.

For days now, she had known she was pregnant. Without telling Dumont, she had gone to see her doctor, to whom she confided that she did not know whether or not she wanted her child to come into the ugly, turbulent world that was showing signs of being even a worse disaster than the First World War. And also, she said, she had to decide whether to tell André Dumont about her pregnancy.

There is a storm coming, she wrote when describing her fears, a whirlwind that will sweep all before it: people, cities, countries, history itself. It will destroy things as we know them and nothing will ever be the same. I wonder if it is not a crime to bring into this world someone who is innocent and blameless of all of this terror and evil.

The moment André Dumont entered the room, Anna was finishing that day’s entry, which was a bittersweet recounting of their love affair—because, as she had written, she now realized that this relationship was not only going to ruin her socially—isolating her from family and friends—but that it would be a source of unhappiness for the rest of her life.

As Dumont approached her, he looked worried and was biting his lips, perhaps because he was thinking over what he would say to her, or perhaps because, and in spite of the fact that he had so coldly denounced her parents, he was not free from feeling guilt and shame. He stood watching her beautiful profile, outlined in the window that was lit by the afternoon’s dusky light. He had confided to an intimate friend, and fellow Nazi collaborator, that he was falling in love with Anna, and that it wouldn’t do to become a slave to that kind of thing. He was trapped, he had stated on several occasions, like anyone who is addicted to one thing or another; that is, trapped between a fierce desire for the thing and an abhorrence of its hold on him.

She looked up when she heard his footsteps. She smiled but her smile quickly faded when she saw his serious face. To his intimate friend he had also confided the thought of keeping the fate of her parents from her but decided that she would find out sooner or later. His friend suggested that she would never forgive him for hiding her family’s tragedy from her and he agreed, so he resolved that it was best that she receive the bad news from him.

Chérie, j’ai quelques mauvaises nouvelles, he said. She stared at him—her large eyes widened even more by the tension and fear that his words caused.

Vos parents ont été arrêtés, he said quickly as if trying to get rid of the news of her parent’s arrest as fast as possible.

Comment? she said, standing up slowly.

He had carefully constructed how he would tell her while driving with his friend through the streets of Paris. They had discussed the details, taking their time to invent something that would sound plausible and would in no way implicate Dumont in the affair. His friend was an official in the Vichy regime, so they decided that he was to say that an acquaintance in the government, who knew that he, Dumont, was close to the Schwartzmann family, had informed him that her father, mother, and grandmother had been taken to Drancy, the place where people were held before being deported to the German concentration camps. He did not tell her all of the truth, of course, which was that her father had been sent to the infamous Vélodrome d’Hiver and her mother and grandmother had been interned in the Parc des Princes, where her grandmother would die within days and her mother would disappear into the maelstrom of deportation. His friend had convinced him to keep these last bits of