Hyde Estate

This was not merely copying someone else's work. He had to adjust the wording, use the language of the era, cite data from the era, and propose plans that fit the political realities and legal framework of 1932.

He removed later terms like "systemic risk" and replaced them with "chain-reaction panic."

He avoided mentioning "deposit insurance," which would not be established until the later Glass-Steagall Act; instead, he emphasized "restoring public confidence" rather than rescuing bankers...

Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened.

He switched on the desk lamp, its dim yellow light illuminating his fingers as they flew over the typewriter.

By late at night, he had completed a twelve-page draft.

It was a detailed proposal combining crisis warnings, response strategies, and a legislative framework.

At the end, he added a brief timetable of action, precisely marking what needed to be done at every key point from November 1932 to March 1933.

"Whew..."

Feilan stretched, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then surveyed his work with satisfaction through the curling smoke.

Next, he needed to find a way to meet his uncle.

After thinking for a moment, he turned his head toward the telephone on the desk.

It was a typical rotary-dial telephone from the 1930s.

Feilan reached over and picked it up, turning the dial with his right hand.

"Hello?"

The call connected quickly, and a woman's voice came through the receiver.

"Helen, it's me."

Besides him, his father James Roosevelt had also fathered a son and a daughter.

Taddy Roosevelt, born in 1879, and Helen Roosevelt, who was now on the other end of the line.

As an illegitimate son, compounded by some of the original owner's past misconduct, Feilan had no presence whatsoever within the Roosevelt Family and had never received the family's formal recognition.

Only Helen, because their father had specifically asked her before his death in 1927 to look after this young and foolish younger brother, had maintained a thin and fragile bond with him.

"My God, Feilan, do you know what time it is?"

Feilan glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It was already half past ten at night.

For the social circles of 1932, nightlife might have only just begun.

But for an upper-class woman like Helen, already married with children and devoted to a traditional schedule, it was indeed late.

"Sorry, Helen, but I need your help."

"Go on. What do you need this time?"

"I need to attend Uncle's celebration dinner."

The United States had a campaign tradition.

That was, successful candidates would always hold grand victory dinners, inviting family members, political allies, and social luminaries.

As the newly elected president, Roosevelt would certainly invite the core members of the family to this upcoming dinner.

"Feilan, I think you need to put yourself in your proper place. No one in the family will welcome your presence!"

"I know, but I have to go!"

"That's impossible!"

"Listen, Helen. Did you know Father left those letters with me before he died?"

"What letters?"

"The letters between him and... my mother. And some diaries. There are things in them that would not be very good for the family's image if they were made public, especially at a time like this..."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm begging you. Take me to the dinner, and I'll hand over every one of those letters and diaries to you. From then on, they'll disappear completely."

The other end of the line fell silent.

But Feilan could hear faint breathing through the receiver, as though she were weighing the pros and cons.

"If you dare cause any trouble at the dinner, I'll have someone throw you out. Then I'll make sure you never receive another cent from the family trust. Do you understand?"

Overjoyed, Feilan replied, "I understand."

"Tomorrow evening at six, a car will come for you downstairs at your apartment. Dress properly. And don't bring a female companion. I know exactly what kind of women your girlfriends are."

With that, the call ended.

At 5:50 the following evening, Feilan put on a dark gray suit and slipped the crisis plan into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Just then, a car horn sounded downstairs.

Feilan hurried down and saw a black Lincoln Model K parked quietly outside the apartment building.

The car had a long body, gleaming black paint, and darkened windows through which its interior could vaguely be seen. The Lincoln emblem on the hood shone brilliantly in the sunset, radiating luxury.

It was one of the most popular sedans among the American upper class in the 1930s.

"Mr. Feilan, I'm Beechy. Mrs. Helen asked me to pick you up."

The driver was a man in his fifties with a typical Central European face.

"Thank you."

Feilan climbed into the back seat. Beechy immediately shut the door, walked around the front of the car, and took the driver's seat.

The sedan entered the evening streets of New York.

Feilan had seen the streets of the 1930s countless times in historical photographs.

But seeing it all laid out before him in such vivid, moving, detail-filled reality was still deeply shocking.

Especially on Sixth Avenue, where lines for relief food stretched across two entire blocks.

The men wore worn-out coats, their hats pulled low.

The women held babies in their arms, and every face was covered by a gray weariness.

Faded posters hung on the walls of nearby buildings, depicting smiling families seated around lavish dinner tables beneath the title: American Standard of Living.

When they passed Central Park, Feilan saw large numbers of crude tents and cardboard shacks beneath the trees.

That was the famous Hooverville, a defining feature of the era.

It was also one of the symbols of the Great Depression.

"It's awful, isn't it?"

Beechy suddenly spoke, watching Feilan through the rearview mirror. "My sister's family is in Cleveland. Her husband worked at a steel mill for twenty years. The mill shut down last month, and now the whole family is crammed into her mother-in-law's apartment. Five children, two rooms."

Feilan did not know what to say.

He knew how long all this would last, and he knew how difficult the road to recovery ahead would be.

But at that moment, sitting in a luxurious sedan and wearing a proper suit on his way to the president-elect's victory dinner, he felt a guilty sense of division within himself.

The sedan left the city and headed north along the Hudson River.

The sky had completely darkened, and the headlights lit the winding road ahead.

Lights from farmhouses occasionally flashed by at the roadside, but most windows were dark. Electricity had become a luxury for many households.

Before long, the car turned onto a private road lined with old oak trees.

In the headlights, a sign appeared ahead—Hyde Estate.

This was the estate where Franklin D. Roosevelt lived.

In 1943, President Roosevelt donated the estate to the nation and established the United States' first presidential library.

Later, it became a museum, archive, and memorial.

In modern times, Feilan had come here many times to consult original letters.

He had also stood before Roosevelt's desk, imagining him drafting the New Deal legislation.