The Unsung Heroes

Chapter 207 The Unsung Heroes

May 25, 1930, New York.

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Barbed wire fencing removed from Colorado border! 'Work-for-Relief' program fully launched!"

"New York Herald In-Depth Report: The Backbone of the Nation Amidst the Ruins of Arthur Kennedy!"

"The Harrison Foundation is investing a million dollars! We want dams, not soup kitchens!"

On that day, the New York Herald devoted four full pages to a panoramic view of Arthur's actions on the Colorado border.

The front page featured a striking black-and-white photograph: in the frigid dawn of the Rocky Mountains, thousands of emaciated refugees stood in neat rows, reaching out their rough hands to receive shovels that symbolized dignity and life.

Below the photo was Arthur's powerfully written editorial title:

When the law chooses silence, labor becomes the only salvation.

In an old house in Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Walter Lippmann sat at his desk, the paper in front of him already mostly filled with writing.

He was writing a long review for The New Republic magazine about Colorado and Arthur.

He wrote:

Mr. Kennedy's greatest achievement was not that he built a few dams, but that he broke the outdated moral shackles that equated poverty with evil.

He paused, took a drag of his cigarette, and continued writing.

In this country, the wealthy always say that the poor are simply not working hard enough. Bankers always say that bankruptcies are due to poor financial management. Politicians always say, "Be patient, the market will adjust itself."

He typed a few words heavily:

That's all bullshit.

He continued writing:

Arthur Kennedy told the world that these displaced people are not a burden, not garbage, not a social ill waiting to be eradicated. They are untapped national treasures. They have shovels in their hands, they have strength in their bodies, and they still have dignity in their hearts.

His invention of the work-for-relief program was not only about repairing Colorado's waterworks, but also about repairing America's crumbling self-esteem.

When the people of a nation begin to believe they are still useful, that nation can still be saved.

Albany, the capital of New York State.

In the study on the second floor of the governor's mansion, Franklin Roosevelt sat in that large armchair.

He had a blanket over his legs and was holding a detailed clipping about the Colorado Plan.

"Work-for-relief"

"The Civilian Conservation Corps —"

He read those words softly, as if savoring a glass of aged whiskey.

His assistant, Louis Howe, stood by, not daring to utter a sound.

Roosevelt turned his head and looked at him.

"Louis, did you see that?"

Hao nodded.

"I see, Mr. Governor."

With the help of his aides, Roosevelt slowly stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the shimmering waters of the Hudson River.

"Arthur and I were of the same mind; it was practically a rehearsal for me. He turned the problem of homelessness, which those bureaucrats feared most, into a massive infrastructure investment. He turned young people who might have turned into rioters into uniformed builders."

He paused, turned around, and looked at Hao.

"This young man not only understands people's hearts, but he also understands every single cog in the machine of the state."

"Mr. Governor," Hao asked softly.

Roosevelt walked back to his desk, picked up a pen, and wrote a few lines on a blank sheet of paper.

He handed the letter to Howe and then said, "Send a private telegram to Arthur. Tell him that my doors are always open to his wisdom."

He paused, then added, "Also, Miss Isabella, please rest assured. I will have my investigation into the New York Herald newspaper handled with care."

Washington, D.C., the White House.

President Herbert Hoover also had a copy of the New York Herald in front of him.

He stared at the photo on the front page for a long time.

In the photo, the displaced people, who were once called "mobs," are lined up in neat rows, receiving shovels and uniforms.

His staff stood by, arguing fiercely.

"Mr. President, we must take action! Those Colorado labor ration coupons are completely unconstitutional! They're issuing private currency!"

"And that civilian conservation group—they're militarizing young people! This is a communist trick!"

"We should immediately declare this system illegal and send federal marshals to Colorado—"

That's enough.

Hoover suddenly spoke.

The office fell silent instantly.

Hoover looked up at his staff.

"Ban? Right now, all of America considers Arthur Kennedy a saint and Bill Adams a savior. If we declare that life-saving system illegal now, what will tomorrow's newspapers say?"

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the overcast sky outside.

"They would say I'm not only a cold-blooded president, but also an executioner who tried to starve tens of thousands of people."

The staff members looked at each other, not daring to speak.

Hoover had his back to them and spoke in a low voice.

"Go out. Leave me alone for a while."

The staff members quietly withdrew.

Hoover was the only one left in the office.

He stood there, looking out the window at the obelisk in the distance that symbolized power and glory, and for the first time felt a sense of despair that all was lost.

The Colorado border, a place that was once blocked by barbed wire.

The camp has completely changed.

Those refugees who were originally full of violence are now lined up in neat rows.

The long queue in front of the recruitment point stretched as far as the eye could see.

An eighteen or nineteen-year-old youth stood in the line.

He was wearing a tattered shirt, and his shoes were worn through, revealing his dark toes.

The person in charge of registration asked, "Name?"

"Jack. Jack Wilson."

"Where did it come from?"

"Kansas. Dodge City."

"What can you do?"

The young man paused for a moment, then honestly replied, "Farming. I don't know how to do anything else besides farming."

The person registering him looked up and glanced at him. Then he picked up a brand-new shovel from the side and handed it to him.

"From now on, you will be able to build dams, plant trees, and do many other things."

The young man took the shovel, looked down at its gleaming blade, and suddenly his eyes welled up with tears.

That night, he sat in his assigned tent and, by the light of a kerosene lamp, wrote a letter to his mother back in Kansas.

He wrote the letter slowly. He didn't know many characters, and it took him a long time to remember many of them.

But he wrote it very carefully.

"Mom, I'm no longer the thief who steals corn outside the barbed wire fence. Mr. Arthur Kennedy gave me a decent gray uniform and a heavy shovel."

He told us that every tree we planted was an effort to reclaim the land that the storms had stolen from America.

He paused for a moment, then continued writing.

This noon, I had the most delicious hot soup I've ever had in my life—a real hot soup with potatoes and salted meat.

As he wrote this, tears dripped onto the letter, soaking the words.

He quickly wiped it with his hand and continued writing.

"Mom, people say he's Saint Arthur. I think they're right."

New York, headquarters of the New York Herald.

Isabella stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the crowd below.

People gathered there from morning till night; some came to deliver gifts, and others to donate money.

The security guard downstairs has already received dozens of baskets of small gifts.

There were scarves knitted by hand by slum housewives, whiskey given by Irish dockworkers, wildflowers picked by homeless children, and even a pair of woolen socks knitted from an old sweater by an old lady.

Each gift came with a note that read: "To Mr. Arthur Kennedy."

Isabella looked at the gifts and felt a surge of emotion.

She knew that in the face of those tabloids that smeared them for "power-for-sex" deals, this most genuine affection was the strongest shield.

There was a knock on the door.

Isabella turned around: "Please come in."

It was Patrick O'Reilly who came in.

"Miss Isabella, these are the things that came in today. Governor Roosevelt's private telegram, Mr. Lippmann's comments, and—and hundreds of letters from readers, all addressed to Arthur."

He placed the stack of telegrams on the table.

Isabella didn't look at the telegrams: "Patrick, why do you think those people trust him so much?"

Patrick paused for a few seconds, then said, "Because he speaks for them. Because they understand what he says. Because they see what he does."

On a small hill in northern Colorado.

Arthur Kennedy looked down at the bustling construction site below.

In the distance, the snow on the Rocky Mountains is melting. Clear meltwater flows slowly through newly dug irrigation canals to the parched land.

Further away, thousands of young people in gray uniforms were carrying stones across the wasteland like diligent ants.

There were also some people squatting beside the newly dug pits, carefully planting delicate saplings.

Those saplings are only as tall as chopsticks now, and they sway precariously in the wind.

But their roots have already penetrated the soil and are growing downwards little by little.

Arthur stood there and watched for a long time.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Governor Adams walked up to him.

"Kennedy, what are you looking at?"

"Looking to the future."

Adams paused for a moment, then laughed.

"The future? Just these irrigation ditches and saplings?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Not those. It's those people."

He raised his chin and pointed to the young people who were working.

"If they learn to use a shovel today, they can learn to use a pen tomorrow. If they learn to build a dam today, they can learn to build a school tomorrow. If they plant saplings today, their children can study under their shade twenty years later."

Arthur turned around and looked at Adams.

"Governor, do you know what I'm thinking?"

"The real miracle is not the arrival of a savior, but the rediscovery of the power of the shovels in the hands of every person on this land."

"The real hero was never me, but that Kansas youth named Jack, and that Oklahoma youth named Peter."

"Farmer Ma is one of the thousands upon thousands of people whose names I don't even know."