New York Superman

By John Skow

CITIZEN PAUL by Ralph Schoenstein Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 156 pages; $8.95

Newspapermen are usually too worn and worried to be credible as heroes, even to their own very young children. But to Ralph Schoenstein, his father was the New York version of Superman: "Not a mild-mannered reporter who put on a cape in a telephone booth, but a commanding editor who could use a telephone booth to get tickets to any sold-out Broadway show." Father Paul was city editor of Hearst's New York Journal-American, the U.S.'s biggest evening paper through the '40s and '50s. He had muscular clout as well; his arms were those of "a well-manicured ape." It was intoxicating to hear friends inquire: "Ralphie, whaddaya think would happen if your father ever hit anybody with all his might?"

This affectionate memoir evokes a giant of great animal magnetism, who could charm a barroom full of journalists or a playground full of children. But when Schoenstein Sr. sensed injustice, he could become a horse of a different choler. Once, Ralph recalls, he and a buddy were given a summons for playing ball in Riverside Park. His father happened along, tore the ticket into bits, and growled at the cop: "For Crissake, why don't you go after [Gangster Lucky] Luciano and leave a bunch of kids alone!" The policeman crept away.

Paul Schoenstein's stock with his young son rose even higher when, during World War II, he was kept under surveillance by a couple of FBI men (the Journal-American had discovered that a German spy was living in the Taft Hotel, and the bureau wondered where the information had come from). "Just wait'll I tell those bastards at school," said Ralph, who had been heckled because his father, being a Hearstman, was held responsible for starting the Spanish-American War. The bastards were more impressed by Paul's Pulitzer Prize.

The award was the result of a Hearst stunt. A young New York girl was dying of a fierce disease and had "seven hours to live" (this uncanny precision -- seven hours, not six or eight -- was quintessential Hearst journalism). Penicillin would save her, but the Army held the existing supply of the wonder drug. Paul phoned the Surgeon General, talked him into releasing the antibiotic, and had it rushed to the hospital in a Journal-American radio car. He beat death by three hours, and the Times by a good deal more.

By the time Son Ralph became a published humorist (My Years in the White House Doghouse; Yes, My Darling Daughters), the Journal- American had wrapped its last fish. The son had become more prominent than his father, and the hail-'ellows in Toots Shor's who used to fawn on Paul could hardly remember his name, much less his deeds. But Ralph never for got. Editor Schoenstein died in 1974; it was probably his only instance of faulty timing. For Writer Schoenstein has produced a filial, funny book that Superman would have loved -- and that anyone might admire.

-- John Skow

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