[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 130 (Monday, October 7, 2002)]
[Senate]
[Page S10038]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]


[[Page S10038]]
                     HONORING DR. SALVATOR ALTCHEK

  Mr. DODD. Mr. President, I rise today to pay tribute to Dr. Salvator 
Altchek, the beloved ``$5 doctor'' of Brooklyn, NY, who passed away 
last month at the age of 92. I ask unanimous consent to print in the 
Record the beautiful obituary commemorating the life of Dr. Altchek 
written by Douglas Martin of the New York Times.
  Dr. Altchek was warmly known as ``the $5 doctor'' because he spent 
virtually his entire 67-year career treating anyone who showed up at 
his basement office in a working class section of Brooklyn Heights, 
charging them little or nothing for his services.
  Despite treating thousands of people, and delivering thousands of 
babies, most people never heard of Dr. Altchek. That's because he 
sought neither fame nor fortune. His only goal in life was to help as 
many people as possible. In so doing, he touched the lives of so many 
individuals and so many families. He was truly an American treasure.
  I leave it to the words of Douglas Martin's obituary to tell the 
story of Dr. Salvator Altchek, whose lifetime of selfless devotion to 
helping strangers will continue to serve as an inspiration to us all. I 
urge all of my colleagues to read this special tribute to a very, very 
special American.
  There being no objection, the article was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

               [From the New York Times, Sept. 15, 2002]

      Salvator Altchek, ``the $5 Doctor'' of Brooklyn, Dies at 92

                          (By Douglas Martin)

       Salvator Altchek, known for 67 years as the $5 doctor to 
     the melting pot of Brooklyn, especially the poorer residents 
     of affluent Brooklyn Heights, died on Tuesday. He was 92.
       He continued to work until two months ago, but gave up 
     house calls five years ago. He delivered thousands of babies 
     and generally attended to the health needs of anyone who 
     showed up at his basement office in the Joralemon Street row 
     house in the Heights where he lived, charging $5 or $10 when 
     he charged at all. The office, with its faded wallpaper of 
     Parisian scenes, cracked leather furniture and antique 
     medical devices, had not changed much since Jimmy Rios got 
     his first penicillin shot there half a century ago.
       ``You could walk into his office and he could tell you what 
     you had before you sat down,'' Mr. Rios said.
       Dr. Altchek often made his house calls on foot, carrying 
     his black medical bag. He treated the poorest people, 
     angering his wife by sending one away with his own winter 
     coat. He welcomed longshoremen and lawyers, store owners and 
     streetwalkers. One patient insisted on always paying him $100 
     to make up for some of those who could not pay at all.
       A few years ago, a homeless man knocked on his door and 
     said he had walked all the way from Long Island to have a 
     wounded finger treated. He had last seen the doctor as a 
     toddler growing up in Brooklyn Heights more than 50 years 
     before.
       The doctor sometimes greeted 70-year-olds he had delivered. 
     While it is unclear whether he was the oldest and longest-
     working physician in the city, he was very likely the only 
     one nicknamed ``the $5 doctor.'' When his practice opened, he 
     treated Arab-Americans around Atlantic Avenue and was the 
     favored doctor of the Puerto Ricans who began to live in the 
     row houses of Columbia Place, near the waterfront, in the 
     1930's.
       ``He wasn't out to make money; he was out to help people,'' 
     said Sara Mercado, whose daughter was delivered by Dr. 
     Altchek. People in her family were among his first patients.
       Ramon Colon, in his book about a Puerto Rican leader, 
     ``Carlos Tapia: A Puerto Rican Hero in New York'' (Vantage, 
     1976), wrote:
       ``He is a physician who treated the poor and never asked 
     for money from the oppressed community. they paid when they 
     had it, and he treated them as though they were Park Avenue 
     residents.''
       Salvator Altchek was born in 1910 in Salonika, then part of 
     the Turkish Ottoman Empire, now part of Greece. As Sephardic 
     Jews, with roots long ago in Spain, the Altcheks spoke 
     Ladino, a form of Spanish spoken by Sephardim that dates 
     back to the 15th century.
       The family became part of New York's ethnic rainbow when 
     his father, David, who spoke a half-dozen additional 
     languages, brought the family to the city in 1914, in 
     steerage. They lived at first on the Lower East Side, but 
     moved to Spanish Harlem, where they felt more comfortable 
     with Spanish-speaking people.
       Dr. Altchek's father took a variety of jobs, including 
     selling fudge at Macy's. But as a professional fermentation 
     engineer, his main income, even during Prohibition, came from 
     the ouzo, cherry brandy and wine he discreetly made and sold.
       Salvator Altchek and his seven brothers and sisters made 
     deliveries. In a favorite family story, he delivered wine to 
     a buyer who admired it and speculated on the vintage.
       ``That's fresh,'' the boy chirped. ``He just made it.''
       He graduated from Columbia and attended New York Medical 
     College, then in Manhattan and now in Westchester County. 
     Emanuel Altchek, the oldest brother and the first of three of 
     the brothers to graduate from medical school, paid Salvator's 
     tuition. Salvator, in turn, paid his brother Victor's way.
       Salvator Altchek worked in Prospect Heights Hospital, long 
     since closed. But he decided that he wanted his own practice. 
     For more than half a century, he began his workday at 8 a.m., 
     took a half-hour off for dinner at 5 p.m. and closed the 
     office door at 8. He then made house calls, often until 
     midnight.
       He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. Walking down a 
     street, he would recognize gay lovers, Mafia soldiers and 
     prominent lawyers. He often greeted someone by grabbing his 
     hand and taking his pulse. His passion for preventive 
     medicine surpassed his tact.
       ``Hello, dear, you're looking well,'' he would say to a 
     patient. ``You put on a little weight, didn't you?''
       When his wife, Blanche, died 32 years ago, he fell into a 
     depression. His sister Stella Shapiro heard him advise a 
     patient to find another doctor. But he gradually recovered by 
     throwing himself into his work.
       He never remarried and was especially proud of the tall 
     linden tree in front of his house, which he dedicated to his 
     wife. He built a bench around it that neighbors and strollers 
     could use.
       In addition to his brother Victor and sister Stella, both 
     of Manhattan, he is survived by his daughters, Susan Aroldi 
     of Saddle River, N.J., and Phyllis Sanguinetti of Buenos 
     Aires; four grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
       Dr. Altchek was a constant personality in a neighborhood 
     that changed many times, from proper society enclave to 
     wartime boardinghouse district to artistic bohemia to haven 
     for young professionals. When Truman Capote, then a Brooklyn 
     Heights resident, invited him to his famed Black and White 
     Ball in 1966, the doctor did not know who Capote was until he 
     finally recalled his face from the steam bath of the St. 
     George Hotel, Caren Pauley, a niece, said.
       Once when he was held up at gunpoint, Dr. Altchek said he 
     could not give the would-be robber any money because he had a 
     date with an attractive woman, Ms. Pauley recalled. The 
     robber, recognizing him, reached into his pocket and gave him 
     $10.
       Dr. Ozgun Tasdemir, a physician who immigrated from Turkey, 
     made Turkish candy for him, having noticed his cache of 
     Turkish desserts in the office refrigerator. She said he 
     brought the latest literature on her ailment to share with 
     her.
       Dr. Altchek stopped making house calls only when he could 
     no longer walk up steps easily. He did not renew his 
     malpractice insurance when it expired in July. He began 
     calling up other doctors, asking them to take his patients 
     who had no insurance.
       His brother Victor said that Dr. Altchek had correctly 
     diagnosed the abdominal condition that led to his own death. 
     His last spoken thought was to remember that he owed a 
     patient a medical report.

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