So many wealthy people had been affected, and with the Jewish community pouring out their collective rage in unison, the aftermath unfolded swiftly.
Had it been as enormous as the $65 billion scale in my previous life, things might have been different. But this time, it was “only” $5 billion, so the result came out surprisingly reasonable.
[Full Compensation Confirmed in Madoff Ponzi Scheme!]
[Quinn Emanuel Law Firm's Astounding Victory Rewrites the History of Class Action!]
[Some Claim Early Investors Shouldn’t Be Compensated in Madoff Case...]
“Woooo! I’ve realized today that justice is alive and well! Long live America!”
“Thank you, thank you....”
Well... maybe not everyone could celebrate—Arthur Andersen, fined $1 billion for aiding a clown act, probably found it a bit unfair.
They should’ve lived more upright lives, frankly.
As a side note, JP Morgan also got slapped with a $1.5 billion fine for allegedly enabling the Ponzi scheme—though they were arguably unaware, which made it all the more frustrating. When you added in the other accounting firms involved and Madoff’s personal assets, it totaled around $3 billion...
Enough to fully cover the damages and even leave some left over.
People had expected irreversible losses, but even a portion of the principal and interest was compensated—so of course they were overjoyed. Except for those who invested while knowing it was a Ponzi, the scammers, and the very bitter JP Morgan, it was a happy ending all around.
And I watched it all unfold from a luxury hotel overlooking Wall Street in New York.
“See that? That’s me.”
I stretched my arms out wide and smiled confidently. A fresh morning breeze swept over my whole body.
Seo Ji-yeon, who had chosen to spend her summer vacation attending to me, swallowed nervously. Her eyes sparkled with admiration.
“Wow... five billion dollars... how much even is that?”
I folded my arms and nodded.
“You can keep the compliments coming!”
“Amazing, Miss! You did all this yourself? Uncovering a scam no one else saw? I made the right choice tying my fate to you, Miss Ha-yeon...”
Sure, I was fishing for praise—but it still felt good.
“Do you want anything? I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll grant you one small wish.”
“I—I’m fine. As long as I can keep serving by your side...”
“Aw, that’s such a humble wish.”
Seo Ji-yeon shook her head, fists clenched.
“It’s not humble. I plan to work by your side for life. And honestly, all I did was tag along. Yeon-ha unnie did more of the hard work supporting you...”
My field secretary, Choi Yeon-ha, nodded. Was that her way of asking for some credit?
“Mm, alright. Then I’ll grant both of your wishes. Fair?”
Their wishes were pretty amusing. Choi Yeon-ha chose to move farther away from me, while Seo Ji-yeon chose to move closer.
It wasn’t a matter of loyalty—it was a matter of ambition.
“I respect your decision, Yeon-ha.”
She had decided to work as my secretary for a few years, take her severance, and transition into an honorary position. Retiring before 40 seemed a bit wasteful, but it wasn’t enough to try and stop her.
“Can I ask why you made that choice?”
“Because I don’t want to work anymore. And besides, a woman should get married before turning thirty...”
There was anxiety on Choi Yeon-ha’s face. She clearly believed that if she kept working , she’d either die old and single or die from overwork.
Well... that’s valid. Honestly, she wasn’t wrong.
I nodded as I thought of the people at the Shoah Foundation, who had aged what felt like decades over the past few months.
Stress, the chronic illness no one in this field could avoid, was terrible for one’s health. Even Seo Ji-yeon’s father had developed stress-induced hair loss.
‘Yep, hair loss is serious business.’
Honestly, it was weird that Seo Ji-yeon still wanted to be my secretary after seeing that up close.
“Hehe... bathing with Miss...”
I gently patted Seo Ji-yeon’s back as she murmured dreamily.
My loyal followers continued to multiply by the day.
“This shall be a statute forever for you: In the seventh month, on the tenth day of the month, you shall afflict your souls and do no work at all, whether a native of your own country or a stranger who dwells among you.”
In Judaism, there’s a day called Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On the 10th of the seventh month in the Hebrew calendar, people fast and reflect on their sins.
In Chinese characters, it’s written as 大贖罪日—but it differs greatly from the Christian term 代贖 (atonement on behalf of another). Simply put, it’s not “substitutionary atonement” but “a great day of atonement.” That’s why it’s called the Day of Atonement.
Though not religious himself, Ha Yeong-il knew theology well enough. After all, for an Asian living in America to socialize among white people, he at least had to pretend to be devout.
Anyway, this year’s Day of Atonement was especially full of sinners. Ha Yeong-il felt it as soon as he visited the Shoah Foundation.
From the richest to the poorest homes, sorrowful wails echoed. Trust within the Jewish community had been shattered, and what they had believed in—a golden calf—was a lie.
At times, he could hear sobbing from the homes he visited. Fortunately, most hadn’t lost much in terms of assets, but the wounds left over the past months were far too deep.
“...You’re here, Director Ha.”
His voice cracked from the fasting. Director Spielberg looked at Ha Yeong-il with gloomy eyes.
“Um, technically I’m not the CEO, just a director. The CEO is someone else.”
He smiled lightly as he replied, but Spielberg’s expression remained somber.
“Well, same difference, isn’t it? Hah... you must’ve had it rough, watching fools throw their money at a scam.”
He said it self-deprecatingly. Even Hollywood actors and Nobel laureates had fallen victim to the scam, but Spielberg’s name had weight too.
His fame had only grown with Schindler’s List and the founding of the Shoah Foundation. He’d become one of the first names mentioned when people talked about successful Jewish figures.
“...I acted because I hated antisemitism, and yet... I fear all I’ve done is sow division within our own people. I know it’s not truly my fault, but... it still doesn’t sit right.”
He didn’t expect a reply. His voice, muttered quietly, was deeply pained. Understandably so. The scam had been publicly exposed only after the foundation’s audit.
“Still, thanks to you, it ended well, didn’t it? And the fact that it was handled by Jewish hands...”
“Hah, handled by Jews? It was you people—and the law firm—that did everything...”
Spielberg sighed, but he did look better than before.
In any case, now that it had been revealed that the Madoff Fund was fraudulent from the beginning, the Shoah Foundation had ultimately done the right thing.
If the fund had collapsed even a few years later, who knows what might’ve happened? There could’ve been a wave of suicides.
The thought sent shivers down Ha Yeong-il’s spine. Miss had always been brilliant since she was a child, but these days... he couldn’t even grasp what she had in that head of hers.
Her sharp insight, her ability to execute, and—above all—her vision that seemed to predict the future...
It made sense that Yoo Ha-yeon wasn’t worried about betrayal. Who could betray someone like her? Even betrayal itself might be part of her plan.
“Well, it turned out that way. The funds gathered by the Shoah Foundation will be spread into diversified investments. Half of it will go into Alpha Fund... and you’ll receive a generous reward for your efforts.”
It didn’t sound like sarcasm—more like genuine appreciation.
“...Thank you for the money, Director.”
So Ha Yeong-il also offered sincere thanks.
“I think... this is a sin we, as Jews, committed. We gave money to a scammer just because he was one of us... without a single doubt...”
This wasn’t just Spielberg’s opinion. Several prominent rabbis had said the same.
This was a sin committed—and allowed—by the Jewish people.
Tied with the rising wave of Jewish nationalism, voices of reflection were growing louder. And everything was moving in a direction that benefited Alpha Fund. Ha Yeong-il couldn’t help but shudder.
That Jewish nationalist movement... there wasn’t a part of it Yoo Ha-yeon hadn’t touched. Anyone would think she was Jewish-Korean at this point.
“...People are even saying this was a blessing from God to the Jewish people. That He sent a kind neighbor to atone for their sins... Isn’t that ridiculous?”
Only God can remove sin. To call this atonement wasn’t just incorrect—it bordered on blasphemy.
And surely, Spielberg and other Jews didn’t mean it that way. More likely, they saw it as the work of a “benevolent outsider.”
In a capitalist society, money is God.
So Ha Yeong-il decided to interpret it his way: not the God of Judaism, but the God of Gold had atoned for their sins.
“Well... theologically speaking, it’s not entirely absurd.”
“That may be... but doesn’t it rub you the wrong way? It’s like giving credit for your hard-earned success to someone else’s deity... Isn’t that a kind of insult?”
A faint laugh escaped him. It was surprising that Spielberg, ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) a Jew, would say that—but the irony made it all the funnier.
Because, in a way, it was true.
If gaining profit through worship of a being one doesn’t understand isn’t faith, then what is?
That afternoon, when Ha Yeong-il calculated the total funds gathered in Alpha Fund, his breath caught for a moment.
Alpha Fund had accumulated over $15 billion.