“Yes, although he seems to have changed recently…” “In what way?” “For one thing, his apartment no longer has empty liquor bottles or women staying overnight.
Instead, it’s filled with stacks of newspapers, books, and countless personal notes.
Perhaps…
God has blessed him with some kind of revelation.” “‘A revelation’…
a revelation…” Roosevelt repeated the word to himself several times before finally relaxing.
“Perhaps.
But no matter what the reason is, the boy finally wants to do something worthwhile—and he clearly has the ability to do it.
That’s enough.” …
Georgetown, N Street.
It was a quiet street lined with red-brick townhouses built in the late nineteenth century.
A black sedan came to a stop in front of a four-story row house.
“We’re here, Mr.
Francis.” “This building belongs to the Morton family, distant relatives of Mrs.
Roosevelt.
It’s currently vacant.
The suite on the east side of the third floor gets the best sunlight, and it’s already been prepared for you.” Francis followed Roosevelt’s secretary, Missy LeHand, inside.
The suite on the third floor wasn’t large, but its layout was practical.
The bedroom was equally modest, containing nothing more than a bed, a wardrobe, and an upholstered armchair.
It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it was the kind of place where someone could live in peace and quiet.
Missy took a card from her handbag and placed it on the desk.
“Mr.
Francis, if you need anything, just call this number.
Someone will take care of it.” “Thank you.” Missy nodded and turned to leave.
Her footsteps gradually faded down the hallway, followed by the soft click of the front door downstairs.
Francis stood alone by the window.
These next few days would probably be the quietest he would ever have again.
Three days from now, once Roosevelt took the oath of office, Francis would join the legislative drafting team and find himself swept into the eye of an unprecedented political storm.
Not long afterward, a light knock echoed against the iron gate downstairs.
Francis hurried down and opened it.
Standing outside was Helen.
“How is it here?” “It’s pretty nice.” “Good.
I’m heading back to New York.” “It’s already night.
Can’t you leave tomorrow instead?” “Thanks to you, Uncle has finally made up his mind to wage a ‘war.’ I need to get back as soon as possible to make preparations.” Francis couldn’t help thinking, How is that thanks to me?
Their uncle had always intended to sharpen his blade against the financial establishment.
Francis had merely handed him a whetstone just as that blade was about to leave its sheath.
Just then, Helen suddenly stepped forward and gently straightened his collar and lapels.
Her movements were careful and tender, completely unlike the stern, dismissive older sister who was always scolding him.
When she finished, she looked him straight in the eyes.
“Francis, no matter what you’ve done in the past, you’ve finally learned to contribute to this family.
I believe that one day, you’ll earn the family’s full recognition.” Her words flowed into Francis like a warm current, stirring something deep inside him.
He remembered how, over all these years, Helen had always acted disdainful toward the original Francis on the surface, speaking sharply and never sparing him criticism.
Yet despite all that, she had always helped him without asking for anything in return.
Francis nodded, then looked past her toward Beach, who stood waiting a short distance behind.
“Beach, please make sure my sister gets back to New York safely.” Beach gave a slight bow.
“You have my word, Mr.
Francis.” Helen gave him one last look before turning and getting into the car.
The door closed.
The engine hummed softly, and the sedan slowly disappeared into the night…
…
March 4, 1933.
The weather in Washington seemed almost determined to reflect the nation’s mood—cold, overcast, shrouded in thick fog, with a steady drizzle falling as temperatures hovered just above freezing.
Yet it was one of the most important days in the history of the United States.
The inauguration of its 32nd president.
Notably, this would be the last presidential inauguration ever held on March 4.
Four years later, the Twentieth Amendment to the Constitution would move Inauguration Day to January 20, shortening the awkward tenure of lame-duck presidents.
But for Hoover, embarrassment was no longer what mattered.
At seven o’clock that morning, Roosevelt first went to St.
John’s Episcopal Church.
The yellow Gothic church, known as the “Church of the Presidents,” stood directly across from the White House and had served as a place of worship for presidents ever since the days of Madison.
Seated in his wheelchair, Roosevelt was pushed into the church by an aide.
He used no leg braces and made no attempt to stand.
Today, he would face both God and the American people exactly as he was.
At ten o’clock, he arrived at the White House to have coffee with the outgoing President Hoover.
The fireplace in the Oval Red Room burned brightly, but the atmosphere was as cold as the fog outside.
Roosevelt sat upright in an armchair, wearing his usual calm, composed smile.
Across from him sat Hoover.
Four years earlier, that face had won the presidency in a landslide and had been hailed by countless Americans as the great engineer and guardian of prosperity.
Now, all that remained was stiffness and defeat.
He knew it was over.
In four hours, history would seal his reputation as one of the great failures in American history, with no hope of redemption.
Roosevelt took a sip of coffee and spoke pleasantly about the weather and the day’s transportation arrangements.
There was no gloating from a victor, nor any hollow words of consolation.
He was simply carrying out the formalities.
Hoover responded mechanically, his fingers trembling faintly on his knee.
At eleven o’clock, the two men climbed into the same open-top automobile and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol.
In most years, a presidential inauguration drew between half a million and a million spectators.
Today, however, the crowd was far smaller.
Ironically, the weather wasn’t the reason.
By this point, banks in twenty-one states had completely shut down.
Schools in Chicago had suspended classes because they could no longer pay their teachers.
Auto workers, textile workers, coal miners…
With tens of millions unemployed, countless people couldn’t even scrape together the money to travel to Washington.
At the foot of the Capitol steps, the most striking sight wasn’t the crowd but the rows of Army patrols standing with rifles in hand.
They were not ceremonial guards.
They were combat troops.
During the final weeks of his presidency, Hoover had ordered Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur to deploy troops on a massive scale in case riots or unrest broke out on Inauguration Day.
At that very moment, MacArthur stood beneath the eastern colonnade of the Capitol, personally directing the placement of the troops with great enthusiasm.
He intended to make a favorable impression on the incoming president.
The VIP seating had been set up on a temporary grandstand above the east front steps of the Capitol.
Heavy rain covers shielded part of the seating, but they couldn’t hide the mink and velvet collars peeking out from beneath expensive overcoats.
The Morgans.
The Rockefellers.
The Du Ponts.
The Mellons…
Representatives of America’s great financial dynasties had all arrived.
Wrapped in luxurious furs, they exchanged greetings and chatted cheerfully with one another, as though this were not the inauguration of a nation on the brink of collapse, but merely another fashionable social gathering.