Chapter 37 - What's the name of that book?
Ten million men between the ages of 21 and 30 had signed up for the draft.
Of those, about 1.37 million were chosen in the lottery.
That worked out to a 13.7% chance.
"You really beat the odds. Since you're at the top, you should be proud."
"Easy for you to say."
Despite my attempt at consolation, Gavin and Cory's gloomy expressions didn't budge.
They looked as lifeless as patients who had just received a terminal diagnosis.
"Don't they say you have to go through some tests before it's final?"
"Yeah. A physical and an eligibility test."
"As long as you've got all your limbs and aren't insane, there's no real reason to be exempt."
"If you really don't want to go, just pull out all your teeth. Or should I help you? I could dislocate your shoulder, if you want."
Gavin and Cory looked tempted for a moment but soon shook their heads.
"If we have to go, then so be it. Anyway, that's not why we came. You remember what you said before? That there's a way to raise your chances of survival even if you get dragged off to war."
"Was that for real?"
"Did I really say that?"
Gavin and Cory looked more serious than ever.
As they'd said, there was a time I'd mentioned it in front of the warship in Union Square.
What was interesting was that they took the words of a seventeen-year-old like me seriously.
But that wasn't the only reason. There was a more plausible explanation that I never would have imagined.
"You said you trained with the independence fighters like the IRA, right?"
"!"
"At the Youth Military Academy or whatever it's called—isn't that right?"
What kind of nonsense is this?
I was taken aback.
How did they get the idea that I'm some sort of child soldier from the Joseon independence movement?
But, it wasn't completely out of nowhere or absurd. In fact, up until a few years ago, there really was a military academy in Hastings, Nebraska that trained independence fighters for the Korean Empire.
It was called the Korean Youth Military Academy—the so-called 'West Point of Korea.'
The students were either sent from the Korean Empire or were children of Korean laborers who had immigrated to Hawaii. They balanced military training, academics, and labor while taking courses to become commanders in the independence army.
But then, three years ago. After accepting the sixth class of cadets, the Korean Youth Military Academy closed down.
The decisive reason was that Japan protested to the US government, and Hastings College, under pressure, cut off its support.
During its six years, the academy trained around 170 students and produced more than 40 graduates.
Some of them returned to their homeland to become freedom fighters, while others spread across America, attending universities or living as immigrants.
I knew all this not just from my previous life, but also from letters and notebooks left by my father, who was Korean.
But Gavin and Cory knew about the Youth Military Academy because of a Tammany Hall politician.
"We overheard Mr. Foley talking. He said the reason you were able to shoot those anarchists so accurately at such a young age must be because of the training you got there."
If it was Tom Foley saying it, it made sense. Tammany Hall, the political machine of the current ruling Democratic Party, would certainly have access to information like that.
And connecting me to the Youth Military Academy wasn't such a stretch, either.
Compared to being an IRA secret agent, it actually sounded more plausible. After a brief internal debate, I decided to go with the story of being a cadet trained by the independence army.
"This is why early education is so important. But don't go around spreading this—if the Japanese find out, they'll come after me."
"Yeah, that could actually happen. Still, Boss Tanner probably knows."
"You're closer to Tom Foley than we are."
"Well, there's nothing I can do about that. Anyway, what brings you here…?"
Before going off to the army.
They said they'd come because they wanted to do whatever they could to improve their chances of survival.
"You're good at that kind of stuff. Teach us everything—from shooting to physical training."
I crossed my arms and stroked my chin.
"If I put you through the kind of training I had, it's not going to be easy. Are you up for it?"
"O-of course. It's better than dying on the battlefield, right?"
"With that kind of determination…"
Looks like I'll have to work them like dogs.
Anyway, the First World War will be over in less than a year.
If Gavin and Cory come back from the front with some experience, even if it's just as cooks, they could become valuable assets later on.
It was a weird misunderstanding that I was a boy soldier from the Korean Empire, but in fact, that might be for the best.
"Well, I'll need some time to prepare too, so let's meet in three days."
"Alright!"
"Oh, and is there anyone else? The more, the better."
"Really? There should be more guys in the gang. We'll round them up."
I was seeing Gavin and Cory off as we came down from the rooftop.
That's when Marcus, who'd said he was running an errand, passed by the front of the Tenement House.
He was with a man—the same middle-aged guy who'd given Roa candy on the steamboat a few days ago.
The two of them were walking down the street chatting.
How do those two know each other?
Curious, but I headed back home.
With Gavin and Cory being drafted, my plans moved up a bit. I'd originally planned to start the Human Enhancement Project once we had a solid base and more people, but it was time to set things in motion.
I carefully drew up the schematics on paper and brought them down to the basement workshop where my mother was.
"Can you make this?"
"What is this?"
After looking over the design for a while, my mother said she'd make it herself. Her eyes sparkled with ambition as she added,
"Son, I've never seen a design like this before. Shouldn't you patent it or something? If you just use a subtler color, I think it could be great."
"You really know how to spot value. We can worry about the colors later and offer more variety. For now, just think of this as a sample and make it for me."
"Alright. But my son, you really are an idea bank. When I see things like this, I know you truly take after me."
She chuckled. Time to haul some fabric.
I helped Leo move supplies, and just before lunch, we packed up piles of underwear to deliver to a client a few blocks away.
On the way back, I bought a five-cent hamburger from a street vendor.
Besides the bun and patty, it just had pickles and onions. It was edible, at least.
For a while, I'd considered getting into the hamburger business. But people like Louis Lassen and Fletcher Davis had already started their shops, and street vendors sold burgers everywhere.
Sure, I could try to stake a claim like McDonald's would in twenty years, but that time hadn't come yet. Even refrigerators were ridiculously expensive right now.
As I headed to the office, still pondering how to make money quickly and easily, I ran into Marcus.
"The guy you were with?"
"You saw?"
"He's a friend of my father's."
"That's interesting. I actually saw him not too long ago, on the steamboat from Coney Island to Manhattan."
"Really? Well, his house is in Brooklyn, so he usually takes the steamboat in."
Marcus spoke casually about his father's friend.
"He used to live in the same German Karlstadt region as my father. They even immigrated to America together on the Eider steamer. But after that, their paths really diverged."
There was a trace of bitterness on Marcus's face.
He let out a sigh, saying that even though they came to America together, his family was still stuck on the Lower East Side.
"Is he rich?"
"Not really. He's tried his hand at all sorts of things—he even opened a barbershop on Wall Street at one point, but he gave that up too. Now he works as a manager at the Medallion Hotel on 23rd Street."
At first, I didn't think much of it. But then—
"Come to think of it, he used to live in your Tenement House, too. It was before we were born, so it's been quite a while."
A man who once lived in the Tenement House at 76 Forsyth Street—where I live now.
Suddenly, I remembered what Roa had said to me when we parted.
Goodbye, Mr. Trump!
I asked Marcus, just to confirm.
"Frederick Trump. Why, is there something? I didn't think you'd remember his name."
He was right.
At this point, he isn't a particularly important figure.
Donald Trump matters, but as for his grandfather...
In my previous life, whether I liked it or not, there were times when I ended up watching documentaries on TV.
Especially in election years, every network would air in-depth programs not just on the candidates but on their family histories, and Donald Trump was no exception.
If I think back, the start of the Trump family story was always the same. It began with the grandfather, an immigrant from Germany, who worked every job he could find and scrimped together enough to buy real estate in America.
But it wasn't until Donald Trump's father's generation that the Trump family built real wealth with property. He started working at a young age because his own father died early.
The important part here isn't the family's fortune, but rather how the grandfather died. He was an early victim of the Spanish flu.
Right at the beginning of the pandemic, as it started spreading and eventually infected one-third of the global population—about 500 million people—he died of pneumonia. And that isn't far off.
The appearance of Trump's grandfather was a stark reminder that it was less than a year until the Spanish flu swept across all of America.
"Marcus, do you happen to know any reporters?"
"Of course... I don't."
"Then is there a newspaper or a reporter you like?"
Marcus just blinked at my sudden question.
There's something I've been thinking about since my days as a shoe shiner.
How can the things I say—which right now might just sound like nonsense—come to earn trust and influence? I'm talking about finding a way to impact not just individuals, but many people.
After meeting Edgar Hoover, my thoughts became even more specific. After a lot of deliberation, I finally concluded that newspaper articles were the answer.
As it happens, Marcus, who truly believes that information is power, reads more newspapers than anyone else I know.
"I might not know any reporters personally, but I do have a favorite newspaper and journalist. The New York World, and the journalist is Herbert Bayard Swope."
The New York World is the very paper Joseph Pulitzer—of the famed Pulitzer Prize—purchased.
Even after his death six years ago, it remained one of the most influential newspapers in America.
And Swope was a reporter for the New York World.
"Why do you like that reporter?"
"Because he's a fellow German, like me."
"If that's all it is, I have to say I'm disappointed."
Marcus insisted there was a real reason, raising his voice.
"If you read the articles Swope writes, you'd feel the same way I do. Not long ago, he wrote a piece called 'Inside the German Empire,' and I don't think there's anyone who understands the war better than he does."
The article apparently offered a sharp analysis of both the internal and external situations in Germany.
In other words, it provided an in-depth look at Germany to assess the state of the war.
This matched exactly with the opening chapters of the prophetic book I planned to write.
"What's the name of that book?"
***
After arriving in Manhattan, I visited a bookstore for the first time and actually bought a book.
[Inside the German Empire: In the Third Year of the War]
Sitting at the table, I squared my shoulders and started skimming through this book that was over 400 pages long. Roa, curious since this was unusual for me, sat next to me and stared at me in fascination.
"Big Brother, is that really you? Is it really?"
"Who else would it be?"
"A big brother who reads books just isn't like you…"
I chuckled and finally revealed a side of myself I'd kept hidden.
"You know, if I go even a single day without reading, my mouth breaks out in sores."
"Wow."
"...That's right. So you should get close to books too. If you're pretty but have nothing in your head, you're not my sister."
"Ciaran?"
"…No, I should've said I read too at times like this."
"But there aren't any books for me to read! I've read everything at home a million times. Once upon a time, a beautiful princess lived. See? I know them all."
What kind of house is this. There aren't even any books for Roa to read.
Besides, I can't focus on reading at all.
"Liam. I'm lifting your restriction for a bit."
"Okay! Let's play, Big Brother."
"Are you going to fly Roa like a plane again today?"
Vrooom.
Liam tossed Roa onto the bed.
His body slam technique looks pretty natural now.
Roa seems pleased too. She laughed delightedly and begged Liam to keep playing until he was tired.
I finished reading the book over the course of two days.
The main content focused on Germany's military situation, its economic difficulties and the resulting public sentiment and war fatigue, as well as the internal conflicts stemming from Emperor Wilhelm II's lack of leadership.
Overall, the book emphasized that while the German Empire appeared powerful on the outside, cracks were already forming within, and these were steadily widening.
The author, Swopes, had previously written an article with the same title that formed the basis for the book's content.
The timing of the article's publication was significant—it came out around when America was deciding to enter the war.
Thus, the article aimed to strengthen the case and justification for joining the war, and to boost the morale of the Allied Powers.
Reporter Swopes delivered an analysis in the article that was almost as sharp as my own knowledge.
What if I were to send him a letter containing my own keen predictions—essentially, my near-prophetic insight?
Just like Edgar Hoover, there's a high chance he would ignore me. But I'm sure it wouldn't be long before he came back looking for it.
I showered Marcus with praise about Reporter Swopes.
"You read the article too, huh? I think he was pretty much spot-on with what he wrote."
"I agree. I'm so taken with Reporter Swopes, I should send him a fan letter."
"That might be a bit much."
It didn't matter.
I wrote down the address for the New York World and the name Herbert Bayard Swope in my notebook, planning to send him a letter whenever he published a particularly intriguing editorial.
Aside from that, I added a new product to the blueprint in preparation for the Spanish flu.
In a pandemic, masks are a must.
This was also for the sake of my own family.
When I handed the blueprint to Mother, she brought up the subject of patents again, just like always.
"I've never seen a mask like this before. But if you make it with a triple-layer design, won't it be expensive? Do you think people would actually pay for it?"
"It'll take time. We might not make money right away, but it'll help the workers."
After all, just think about how much dust you breathe in after working all day in a basement with no ventilation.
Masks are essential for their health. Worst case, I can give one to Grandpa Trump too.
"Oh, right, I finished this. But honestly, the color is just awful. Why did it have to be…"
"It's fine. Everything has its purpose."
***
A vacant lot on Ludlow Street, a few blocks from the tenement house where I lived.
At the agreed time and place, Gavin and Cory showed up.
But it wasn't just the two of them—there were five in total, all guys who had the rotten luck of beating steep odds only to get drafted. And two of them weren't even from the Marginals—they said they belonged to a neighboring gang.
"All right, everyone, gather over here."
Typical gangsters—they had a rude attitude, shambling over like live octopuses.
"Line up, shoulder to shoulder."
"What's that even mean?"
Guess they don't know yet. I patiently explained that forming a straight line side by side was what I meant by "shoulder to shoulder."
"From now on, if anyone wants to refuse what I say or gets the feeling this isn't for them, you're free to leave."
Pfft. Some jerk snorted.
"As I said, if you want to survive a fight, you need to start by toughening your mind. If you're going to quit because it's hard, you can still back out now."
Pfft. The same guy scoffed at the end of every sentence. Word about me had already spread among the Marginals, but these guys from the neighboring gang were clueless. When I glanced at Gavin and Cory, who'd brought him, their faces soured as well.
"If you want to leave, do it before I count to ten."
I counted out loud, nice and slow.
Of course, no one would want to drop out just yet.
"I'll take it that you're all joining the training."
I took out the hat my mother had made from inside my coat and pulled it snugly onto my head. Everyone seemed shocked—they couldn't take their eyes off the hat.
"From this moment, I'll assign each of you a number. Starting from the left, you're number one. Announce your numbers one by one."
"But seriously, what's with that ridiculously red hat? It's hilarious, man. How are we supposed to train like this?"
I swept my gaze swiftly from left to right.
"Number five, step forward."
"Whoa, I'm number five? But why?"
"Step out."
Pfft.
There's an old saying that if you discipline one guy at the start, training gets a lot easier.
Back in my days as a Former Mafia Training Instructor, I made that up myself.