Evolution of a Medical Specialist

strode away. As I entered the patient’s room I was surprised to find no Mr. Teitlebaum. Evidently Dr. Berg had laid down the law.

Three days passed and still no Mr. Teitlebaum. A miracle! That afternoon as I left the sick room and strolled down the corridor, my attention was attracted by an odd phenomenon: the door of the men’s room seemed to be opening automatically, at a very slow rate, then closing again. I stopped to look and behold! The grizzly head of Mr. Teitlebaum slowly protruded through the crevice. The face was greasy, covered with a three-day beard, the hair disheveled, the clothes unpressed. Mr. Teitlebaum emerged, looking surreptitiously up and down the corridor to see if his enemy was anywhere. Beckoning, he drew me out onto a fire escape.

“Dr. Crohn, do you know what has happened? That Dr. Berg, he sent me a bill for $500! $500! You see, Dr. Berg is to me like a stranger, but you ….” Drawing me over by the lapel of my coat, he said, “You are to me like a friend. So, do me a favor. Lend me the $500 to pay Dr. Berg!”

Rachel recovered and went home. My guarantee had been made good, and eventually Dr. Berg was paid, and, I presume, so was I. In 1922, I moved my office to 1075 Park Avenue, a new apartment house. The ground floor was fitted out as a spacious set of rooms, including a small laboratory and a large x-ray department.

Short, pudgy Dr. Samuel Goldfarb was my radiologist, and an excellent one, too. When we moved in, one of my confrères was heard to remark, ‘What self-respecting doctor would select an office on Park Avenue north of 86th Street?” Below 86th Street, Park Avenue was “plush,” like Harley Street in London; above it were no apartment buildings or homes de luxe. In fact, however, 38.