President Maker?

(See Cover)

At Dwight Eisenhower's picnic for the Pennsylvania Republican delegation two weeks ago, Donald Fine, nine-year-old son of Governor John Sydney Fine, was wearing an Ike button. A newsman asked young Fine whether it meant he liked Ike. Replied Donald, clearly a chip off the old block: "I think Eisenhower is a nice man. I think Taft is too."

"I wasn't going to let him catch me on that one," Donald later explained to Dad (who could scarcely have done better himself). "If I told him who I liked, then he might think you liked him too. Then they would say that fellow was going to be President, because I read in the paper you are going to decide who gets the nomination."

There was more to Donald's view than filial loyalty. Governor Fine holds the key to the Keystone State. He controls about 30 of Pennsylvania's 70-member delegation, and it is entirely possible that Fine's decision to throw his delegates behind Ike Eisenhower or Bob Taft might decide who gets the nomination. Which side of the fence John Fine will climb off is a burning question in the G.O.P. today. This lifelong machine politician, a miner's son from northeast Pennsylvania's brawling coal country, almost overnight has become a national figure, the biggest Boy in the nation's Backroom.

The position delights John Fine but it does not awe him. He approaches his momentous decision between Taft and Ike with the same infinite patience, shrewd caution and grave sense of responsibility which he has applied for 30 years to the selection of road commissioners, court tipstaves and dogcatchers.

Picture Windows on Politics. Pennsylvania is one state where a man does not cringe when his son asks him (as young Donald did the other day): "You're a politician, aren't you, Dad?"

Pennsylvania is used to politics. And Pennsylvania politics have held the nation's horrified eye for 100 years because so little is concealed from the public view. In Pennsylvania the political backrooms have picture windows. Politicians let down their hair (if any) in front of reporters. Pennsylvania politics wears its skeleton outside its body, like a crab.

In this presidential year the Pennsylvania specimen under closest study is John Fine. To understand him it is necessary to recall the fabulous political background from which he comes. The ghosts of long-dead leaders still stalk Pennsylvania politics. Alignments formed long ago still operate, and the forces that pull and tug at John Fine today were pulling and tugging at John Fine's predecessors when Bob Taft's father was in the White House and Dwight Eisenhower was a youngster in Abilene.

The Predecessors. Simon Cameron formed the first really strong Pennsylvania machine about 1850, and by 1860 he was in much the same position as John Fine is today. To get Abraham Lincoln the Republican nomination, Lincoln's lieutenants had to promise Cameron a Cabinet post. He was one of the worst Secretaries of War who ever bought a carload of defective rifles, but his power in Pennsylvania was unbroken until his death (at 90) in 1889. He passed his Senate seat on to his son, but his real power fell to Matt Quay.

It was Quay (a Congressional Medal of Honor winner in the Civil War) who brought the alliance between the Republican Party and business interests to its fullest flower. A colleague said that Quay had "a consummate skill in calculating political quantities." He also had a profound Pennsylvania contempt for political hypocrisy. Quay and the Pennsylvania Railroad sent carloads of men into doubtful Indiana to vote for Harrison against Cleveland. When Harrison said: "Providence has given us the victory," Quay snarled: "Think of the man. He ought to know Providence had nothing to do with it."

After Quay grew old and ill, the machine passed to the most remarkable of the Pennsylvania bosses, Boies Penrose, scion of an aristocratic Philadelphia family, a Harvard man who started out writing books like A History of Ground Rents in Philadelphia. He made his political debut at a citizens' protest meeting against Philadelphia's notoriously undependable streetcar lines. The 6 ft. 4 in., 200-lb. political genius went to the legislature, the state senate, the U.S. Senate; he would have run for mayor of Philadelphia if the opposition had not threatened to print a snapshot of Penrose leaving one of the city's better-known brothels. Penrose was too rich to graft and too fascinated by the game of politics to care much about the ends. He sat in the U.S. Senate for 24 years, but he never really cared what the nation's laws were, so long as he dispensed Pennsylvania's share of the patronage.

The evil that all these men did has lived after them, and yet Pennsylvania probably made more economic and social progress than any other part of the world, before or since. Was this in spite of the politicians or was there some connection between the apparently pointless genius of a Penrose and the lusty growth of his state?

Hard as that question is, there is no doubt that the Pennsylvania in which John Fine grew up was a land of opportunity --in politics as in business.

The Dark Hills. John Fine grew up in the loud, dirty, infinitely energetic heartland of U.S. industrial power. Pennsylvania's gentle green hills had been ripped open, and out spilled the guts of America--coal and iron. The sparkling rivers, where men had once drunk clear water from cupped hands, ran black with the silt of progress. The hillsides were blighted by the drab, unpainted shacks of company towns.

Fine was born (1893) in such a town, an anthracite "mine patch" near Nanticoke. His father worked for the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Coal Co., first running the stationary engine in the shaft, then working on a company-owned farm. When little John was in grade school, he helped at farm chores and plowing. But he found that a man could still make his way out of the dark hills if he wanted to. After he graduated from high school, Fine studied law, paying his way by a job delivering and picking up laundry.

Fine did well at Dickinson Law School. One day, crotchety old Dean William F. Trickett summoned him. "Young man," cried Dean Trickett, "you could become one of the finest lawyers in this state. But you won't. You won't. You're going to be a politician."

It was the time of Teddy Roosevelt's Bull Moose rebellion against William Howard Taft's old-line Republican Party. Fine, along with many other young Republicans, felt that Taft had "steamrollered" his way to nomination at the 1912 convention. As indignant as any Ikeman, 40 years later, about the steamroller of Taft's son Robert, young Fine, still too young to vote, campaigned against Taft and for Teddy Roosevelt.

In Philadelphia, Boies Penrose made the contrary decision--and his reasoning may parallel that of some Taftmen today. Penrose knew that the elder Taft could not win, but he told a friend: "If you have to choose between losing an election and losing control of the [party] organization, lose the election."

By 1922, Lawyer Fine had hung out his shingle in Wilkes-Barre, had enlisted and gone overseas in the A.E.F., studied at Dublin's Trinity College and come home again to Republican county politics. That year, T.R.'s ally, lean, aristocratic Gifford Pinchot, decided to run for governor of Pennsylvania. The great fighter for "conservation" against the heedless exploitation of the "robber barons" was Fine's political hero. Fine became Pinchot's state campaign manager.

Enter the P.M.A. Pinchot was a "liberal" and a "reformer," but the words in his day did not carry quite the same meaning as they do today. Throughout his political career, Pinchot's strongest ally was Joe Grundy, owner of a Bristol, Pa., textile plant, who founded the Pennsylvania Manufacturers' Association. Grundy was a new kind of political boss. To Cameron and Quay the money to be made in politics was an incidental increment of political power; to Penrose money was just a means to political ends. But Grundy & friends were primarily businessmen, interested in politics as an aid to business. To this day the Grundy "machine" is not a normal political organization with normal responses. It is the super-lobby of a pressure group. It reaches the grass-roots voters only through alliances with certain county leaders. Joe Grundy believes and says that Bob Taft is the greatest American since William McKinley--and Grundy is so out of touch with voters that he does not understand why this compliment to Taft incites laughter.

From 1922 until a few years ago, John Fine was an ally of Grundy's P.M.A. He was boss of Luzerne County (Wilkes-Barre), but he did not play politics on the Grundy basis. His was a "normal" political machine devoted heart & soul to perpetuating and expanding its power. It had no noticeable social philosophy, liberal, reactionary or otherwise. Says John Fine: "I like to play politics for all I am worth when I am playing it. I like to give good government where I can, build up my organization, keep the confidence of the people, keep down the gripes, and refresh the organization with new blood."

In 1927 Pinchot appointed Fine to a judgeship. Fine took the job reluctantly, more to protect his prestige as a patronage dispenser than because he wanted it. In 1947 Governor James Duff promoted him to the Pennsylvania Superior Court. Each time, after his appointment was up, Fine was elected to the posts. It never bothered Fine--and it never bothered most of the people in Luzerne County--that he was a political boss and a judge at the same time.

Loyalties. A serious politician like Fine may hesitate long over decisions and make them finally in great anguish. It is unlikely, however, that Fine is suffering as much over his Taft-Ike decision as he did over one that faced him in 1930. Fine is still stirred by the memory. The story throws some light on the ethics and values of politics as played by John Fine.

In the 1920s, Fine became friendly with a Philadelphia lawyer by the name of Francis Shunk Brown. Brown wanted some day to run for governor, and discussed his plans with Fine. The boy from the mine patch was thrilled to be the confidant of so big a man. "I felt highly honored to be in the presence of Francis Shunk Brown," says Fine. "I looked up to him with the most profound respect and admiration." But Fine told him that if ever Gifford Pinchot, to whom he owed his judgeship, should decide to run for governor again, he would have to support Pinchot. Brown thought that quite proper. Three years later, when Pinchot actually tried for the nomination against Francis Shunk Brown, the situation grew a little tight for Fine.

At first, not being sure of Pinchot's plans, he favored Brown. When he dropped in to see Pinchot in Washington, on his way to Florida, Mrs. Pinchot, snapped: "You're against Gifford!" Fine promptly returned to Pennsylvania, told Brown he had to go to work for Pinchot. Brown was hurt. "I didn't mean that Pinchot owned you for life," he said. As Fine recalls it: "We both had a tear and I left." Pinchot won with a slim majority of 21,000. Fine's own Luzerne County gave him a majority of 26,500. In a way, this meant that Fine had elected Pinchot virtually singlehanded. Says Fine: "If Pinchot had won by 50,000, Brown and I could have healed the breach. As it was, we never could. I did not sleep for two nights after the returns were in."

Rebellion. The next major trial of John Fine's loyalties came in 1950, with the big rebellion against Joe Grundy. The Pennsylvania county leaders were disgruntled at the Grundy regime. The P.M.A. expected them to get out the vote, but often ignored their requests at the council table. The county leaders, in touch with the people, thought that they should be consulted on unpopular measures that might hurt their organization. Grundy's P.M.A. never worried much about popularity.

The county leaders wanted to run their own man for governor rather than the P.M.A.'s candidate. But suppose they lost? How seriously would they suffer under a hostile governor who could withhold state patronage? They reached an important decision. As one of the leaders put it: "This state patronage is way overrated. I have more jobs in my own county than the governor can give me. State patronage is the meringue on the pie. But we have the pie itself."

Who Is Punitive? The big moment of the 1950 rebellion came at the Penn Sheraton Hotel in Philadelphia. Duff, who was planning to run for U.S. Senator, made a rousing speech urging the group to pick an anti-Grundy candidate for governor. The majority picked Fine.

John Fine was in a delicate position. He had dealt with Grundy for 30 years. But then, of course, he also owed a great deal to Duff, who had appointed him to the superior court. In characteristic fashion, Fine managed to stretch between the two forces--without tearing.

Fine felt he needed Grundy support at the polls to beat the Democrats, and went to see G. Mason Owlett, Grundy's deputy. "His big worry," recalls Fine, "was whether I would be punitive against the Grundys. He didn't ask for anything and I didn't offer anything. But I said I had no intention of being punitive."

As a result, Grundymen urged the election of the straight Republican ticket, and Owlett raised money for Fine's campaign.

Mother & Father. Three months after Fine moved into the 27-room, heavily Victorian governor's mansion on Harrisburg's Front Street, personal tragedy shook his life. His wife, whom he had married in 1939 (she was 19 years his junior), died of brain cancer. Fine moved out of the mansion, and went to live at the governor's summer residence at Indiantown Gap. Mrs. Fine's brother and his wife came to keep house for the governor and help him look after his two sons, Jack, now 11, and Donald, 9. Fine is deeply devoted to the boys, and they to him. One of the reasons for Fine's affection for General MacArthur is supposed to be the attention the general paid to the boys during a visit. Eisenhower was well briefed on this matter. At the Gettysburg picnic Ike met the boys, and asked Donald:

"What do you call your father?"

"Dad."

"And what do you call your father, Jack?"

"Pal."

Says Fine: "He always calls me pal. I don't know where he picked it up but I get a great kick out of it."

Fine is a regular churchgoer (Episcopalian), vice president of the Pennsylvania Council of Churches and a senior warden at his own parish, St. George's, Nanticoke. He says with true Pennsylvania candor: "As a boy, I never missed an opportunity to cut church. But when I became a judge, I felt that a judge should set a good example in his county."

Ultimatum. As governor, Fine continues to run Luzerne County almost as closely as before. He will call his lieutenants several times a day, sometimes at 7:30 in the morning, sometimes at 1:30 at night, and drop in for unexpected inspections. He continues to supervise Luzerne County patronage, and often angers the regulars by handing jobs to defeated political enemies as consolation prizes. He always likes to play his cards close to the chest: he rarely announces a slate of candidates until the last possible minute of the last day.

Fine had not been governor long before the P.M.A.'s masterful lobbyists sold him Joe Grundy's favorite idea--a state personal-income tax (ungraded) to reduce taxes on corporations. The anti-Grundy county leaders howled in outrage. They said the tax would lose thousands of voters to the Democrats. Eventually, the tax bill was defeated.

On the heels of that row came a related one, the Taft-Eisenhower issue. Last month the anti-Grundy group met again. Jim Duff came up from Washington. Conspicuously missing: John Fine. The group's decision: John Fine ought to come out immediately for Ike. Otherwise, Fine would either 1) be "on the freight," i.e., go for Eisenhower too late to do himself any good, or 2) be stuck with the man (Taft) who, the leaders thought, was sure to lose in November.

News of the impending ultimatum leaked out, and Fine heard about it. When two of the county leaders appeared to deliver it, Fine was ready. No one knows just what he told them. The gist: he flatly refused to commit himself for the time being. Once again, John Fine stretched without breaking.

Maybe Later? There are other pro-Ike forces working on Fine. One of them is a millionaire with a passion for politics and photography named Andrew John Sordoni, for years a close friend of Fine's. Sordoni, a son of one of Garibaldi's famous 1,000 who came to the U.S. in 1867, worked in the mines as a child, and decided to make a million. He made his million many times over. He owns 14 companies, is a director of 40 more, lives in one of his six hotels. He is also secretary of commerce in the cabinet of his good friend Governor Fine, and an Ikeman.

Some months before the primary, Sordoni offered $15,000 to the Eisenhower campaign fund. A few days later, Fine told him: "Andy, I wish you wouldn't-do it. I don't think we should make a commitment now." Sordoni told the Eisenhower people: "I am sorry, gentlemen, but I've got to respect his wishes. Maybe later."

But Sordoni still likes Ike. He has nothing against Taft except the belief that he can't win the election. "Ike has a feeling for people," says Sordoni. "They have a feeling for him. It isn't that way with Taft. I'm sure Taft is one of the ablest men in the country. But I thought Hoover was too. Taft is like Hoover. He says no, then won't take the trouble to sell a man his reasons for saying no."

Most people who know Fine say that the man who has the greatest personal influence on him is Andrew Sordoni.

Man of the Hour? Fine, who, like Boss Quay, has great "skill in calculating political quantities," can certainly understand the arguments of the county leaders and his friend Sordoni to the effect that Ike is a good bet for November. The Grundys, out of touch with the voters as usual, are pressing just as hard for Taft. They can point to 20 pro-Taft counties. The Ikemen reply that these are rural counties, Republican since the Civil War. The pro-Ike county leaders come from the populous centers where the party faces the fight of its life against the Democrats.

Fine seems to have only three alternatives :

1) He can continue to do nothing until Chicago where, on the first ballot, some think he might go for MacArthur--a safe way to temporize--and then jump either on an Ike or a Taft bandwagon. But there is some question whether Fine can hold on to his bloc of delegates that long. Also, a last-minute decision will earn him less gratitude from the nominee than an earlier commitment.

2) He can come out for Taft. While Taft may well be nominated, it is another question how much good that would do John Fine. Chances are that a pro-Taft stand by Fine would simply be regarded as a machine politico's routine falling-in with the Grundys. Taft leaders have been saying for weeks that Fine will be in their camp; if he is, he won't get much credit for it. While John Fine might pick a Republican nominee in Bob Taft, it is more than doubtful that he would be picking a President.

3) He can commit himself to Eisenhower. He is obviously still afraid that if he does, and Ike loses in Chicago, John Fine's political position will be badly shaken. But there is a very good chance that a pro-Ike pronouncement from Fine would assure Eisenhower's nomination. In that case, John Fine would be the man of the hour, the President maker from Luzerne County.

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