This wasn’t just a matter of copying someone else’s homework.
He had to adapt the wording, write in the language of the era, cite data available at the time, and propose policies that fit the political realities and legal framework of 1932.
He removed future-era terms like systemic risk and replaced them with chain panic.
He deliberately avoided mentioning deposit insurance—that wouldn’t be established until the later Glass-Steagall Act.
Instead, he emphasized restoring public confidence rather than rescuing bankers…
Outside, dusk gradually gave way to night.
He switched on the desk lamp, its warm yellow glow illuminating his fingers as they danced across the typewriter.
By the middle of the night, he had finished a twelve-page draft.
It was a detailed proposal that combined crisis warnings, response strategies, and a legislative framework.
Finally, he added a concise timeline, carefully marking every key step that should be taken from November 1932 through March 1933.
“Phew…” Francis stretched, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.
As smoke curled through the room, he looked over his work with satisfaction.
Next, he had to find a way to meet his uncle.
After a moment’s thought, he turned toward the telephone on his desk.
It was a typical rotary-dial telephone from the 1930s.
Francis picked up the receiver and spun the dial with his right hand.
“Hello?” The call connected almost immediately, and a woman’s voice came through the receiver.
“Helen, it’s me.” Besides him, his father, James Roosevelt, had also had a son and a daughter.
The elder, Tadd Roosevelt, had been born in 1879, while the woman on the other end of the line was Helen Roosevelt.
As an illegitimate son—and thanks to the original owner’s less-than-stellar behavior over the years—Francis had virtually no presence within the Roosevelt family and had never received formal recognition from them.
Only Helen maintained even the slightest connection with him.
Before their father died in 1927, he had specifically asked her to look after her young, immature brother, and because of that request, the two had managed to preserve a fragile bond.
“My God, Francis, do you have any idea what time it is?” Francis glanced at the clock on the mantel.
It was already half past ten at night.
For the social circles of 1932, the nightlife was probably just getting started.
But for an upper-class woman like Helen, who was already married with children and faithfully kept to a traditional schedule, it was undeniably late.
“Sorry, Helen, but I need your help.” “Go on.
What do you need this time?” “I need to attend Uncle’s victory banquet.” The United States had a long-standing campaign tradition.
Whoever won an election would host a grand victory banquet, inviting family members, political allies, and prominent figures from society.
As the newly elected President, Roosevelt’s upcoming banquet would undoubtedly include the core members of the family.
“Francis, I think you need to remember your place.
No one in the family wants you there.” “I know.
But I have to go.” “That’s impossible.” “Listen, Helen.
Do you remember Father leaving those letters with me before he died?” “What letters?” “The letters between him and…
my mother.
There are also some diaries.
If their contents ever became public, they wouldn’t do the family’s reputation any favors—especially not right now…” “Are you threatening me?” “I’m begging you.
Take me to the banquet, and I’ll hand over every letter and diary.
They’ll disappear forever.” Silence answered him from the other end of the line.
But Francis could still hear her faint breathing, as though she were weighing the pros and cons.
“If you dare cause even the slightest trouble at that banquet, I’ll have you thrown out personally.
And I’ll make sure you never receive another cent from the family trust.
Do I make myself clear?” Francis was overjoyed.
“Understood.” “The car will pick you up outside your apartment at six tomorrow evening.
Dress appropriately.
And don’t bring a date—I know exactly what kind of women your girlfriends are.” With that, the line went dead.
…
The following evening, at 5:50 p.m., Francis put on a dark gray suit and slipped the crisis proposal into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Just then, the sound of a car horn echoed from downstairs.
Francis hurried outside and saw a black Lincoln Model K parked quietly in front of the apartment building.
Its long body gleamed beneath a flawless black finish, while its tinted windows offered only a faint glimpse of the luxurious interior.
The Lincoln emblem on the hood sparkled in the light of the setting sun, radiating understated elegance.
It was one of the most popular luxury automobiles among America’s upper class in the 1930s.
“Mr.
Francis, my name is Beach.
Mrs.
Helen asked me to pick you up.” The driver was a man in his fifties with the unmistakable features of someone of Central European descent.
“Thank you.” Francis climbed into the back seat.
Beach immediately closed the door, walked around the front of the car, and settled into the driver’s seat.
The sedan pulled into the evening streets of New York.
Francis had seen countless photographs of American streets from the 1930s.
But seeing it all unfold before his eyes—alive, moving, and filled with countless small details—was an entirely different experience.
The impact was overwhelming.
Especially along Sixth Avenue, where the lines of people waiting for food relief stretched for two full city blocks.
The men wore threadbare coats with their hats pulled low.
The women cradled infants in their arms.
Every face was shrouded in the same dull exhaustion.
On the wall of a nearby building hung a faded poster depicting a smiling family gathered around a lavish dinner table beneath the slogan: The American Standard of Living.
As they passed Central Park, Francis also noticed countless makeshift tents and cardboard shacks beneath the trees.
Those were the infamous Hoovervilles— one of the defining symbols of the Great Depression.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Beach suddenly spoke, his eyes meeting Francis’s through the rearview mirror.
“My sister’s family lives in Cleveland.
Her husband worked at a steel mill for twenty years.
The plant shut down last month.
Now all seven of them are crammed into her mother-in-law’s apartment.
Five children.
Two rooms.” Francis didn’t know what to say.
He knew how long this suffering would last.
He also knew just how painfully slow the road to recovery would be.
Yet here he was, sitting in a luxurious automobile, dressed in a fine suit, on his way to attend the victory banquet of the President-elect.
A deep sense of guilt and contradiction welled up inside him.
The sedan left the city behind and headed north along the Hudson River.
Night had completely fallen, and the headlights illuminated the winding road ahead.
Occasionally, lights flickered from a farmhouse by the roadside, but most windows remained dark.
For many families, even electricity had become a luxury.
Not long afterward, the car turned onto a private road lined with towering old oak trees.
Bathed in the headlights, a sign appeared ahead: Hyde Park Estate.
This was the estate where Franklin D.
Roosevelt lived.
In 1943, President Roosevelt donated the estate to the nation, establishing America’s first presidential library.
It would later become a museum, an archive, and a memorial.
In the modern era, Francis had visited this place many times to examine original letters.
He had even stood before Roosevelt’s desk, imagining him drafting the legislation that would become the New Deal.