[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.
____________________