On Sept. 11, Robert Rosenthal strode into the newsroom and waded into the heart of the biggest story any of us had ever known.
The Inquirer’s editor had been at a meeting in Conshohocken when news broke that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. He drove as fast as he could down the Schuylkill to The Inquirer newsroom on Broad Street.
When he entered the room, a two-story, cavernous rectangle, he headed straight for the city desk. At 9:30 a.m., the newsroom usually is as quiet as a library. But on this day, there already was a hum of activity at the city desk. Rosey, as we call him, joined the crowd, took up the reins of the story, and never let go.
At the initial meeting of editors, he said that this day was “Pearl Harbor” all over again: “We’ll do everything we can conceivably think of.”
An extra edition was on the streets shortly after noon. Twenty-eight pages of coverage filled the next day’s paper. Deep into that night, and many that followed, Rosey prowled his newsroom, questioning, urging, deciding, consoling.
Readers responded by heaping praise and thanks on the paper, telling us the ongoing coverage was extraordinary, insightful and comprehensive. They said it helped them begin to heal.
Weeks later, The Inquirer produced an elegant tribute, “The Ones We Lost,” that honored the memories of 52 local victims of the attack.
Behind it all was the hand of Robert Rosenthal, 53, a 22-year veteran of the paper. The former foreign correspondent and foreign editor was the first among us to understand the full dimensions of Sept. 11. He understood how the world is interconnected, telling us where to expect anti-American demonstrations in the Middle East. At the same time, the father of three children pressed to make sure the paper explained how to tell the awful news to kids.
I told Rosey later that I thought it was his best day.
Less than two months later, he would be out of a job. I can’t begin to explain the reasons, for it is a complicated affair.
But I can tell you there was a difference of opinion with publisher Bob Hall over how much suburban news coverage to do, how fast to get it started, and overall, how best to stem the paper’s declining circulation. It was a disagreement they couldn’t bridge.
On Tuesday, Election Day, the news came to The Inquirer’s door. Rosey had resigned.
Everything came to a halt, as colleagues huddled in groups to absorb the news. Standing outside his office, Rosey gave bear hugs and shook hands. He thanked colleagues for their hard work and urged them to help the new editor, Walker Lundy, succeed.
There were tears. In his four years as editor, he’d urged us to take things personally, to take our work to heart. He was inspiring, but not always easy to work for. When he wanted something done, he was as uncomfortable as an ambulance on your tail.
But for at least a year, this newsroom has been on a roller-coaster ride of buyouts and cutbacks. We were grateful that Rosey was in the first car, taking the biggest jolts himself.
At 11:30 a.m., the staff headed to a conference room downstairs to be introduced to Lundy, a distinguished journalist who struck the right tone on a difficult day.
I stayed behind with Rosey in his office. I sat on the arm of his leather sofa and he sat behind his desk, as big as a front door, one foot on its edge. “Do you have any gum?” he asked, and I bought him a pack of Juicy Fruit.
He took phone calls and answered e-mails from around the country. It was only noon and this man of unflagging energy was exhausted. He’d spent the last few days taking care of others and hadn’t had time to grieve. But he knew that was coming next. He promised he wouldn’t become bitter. “I’m not like that,” he said.
Outside his door, the newsroom, big and glowing white, looked like an empty refrigerator. About 12:15, voices signaled the staff was drifting back in.
It was time. Rosey put on a gray suitcoat, hugged his secretary and began walking down the newsroom’s main aisle, long as a city block.
A few hands started clapping. The applause rang louder until it filled the room. Staffers rose from their desks and formed a phalanx on the aisle. Whistles erupted from the balcony.
Rosey waved quick acknowledgments to the left and the right as he strode toward the exit. It was like the ending to a movie, only no credits rolled on a screen.
With that spontaneous standing ovation, his colleagues of two decades paid tribute, showed respect. And those are the words with which this column will end.
