My Encounter with Bernard Baruch

My Encounter with Bernard Baruch The first woman patient I had in my training as a psychiatrist undoubtedly remains the most memorable. A young female, in her mid or late twenties whom I shall call Estie K., suffered a psychotic breakdown while aboard ship on the way to the United States. She had become acutely agitated believing that the Nazis were directing malevolent rays at her from the electric bulb in her cabin and from her steamer trunk. She had to be physically restrained, and when the boat docked in New York, she was transferred by the Immigration Service to the United States Public Health Service Marine Hospital on Ellis Island. In due course, a certificate of insanity was issued, and she was awaiting deportation to her native Germany. She was Jewish; the year was 1938. I had completed a two-year internship in internal medicine and was in the process of arranging for a program of training in psychiatry. While in high school I had come across a copy of Freud's Introductory Lectures to Psychoanalysis. His insights were like a revelation to me, and I decided that psychoanalysis was to be my life's work. In the 1930s there were hardly any integrated programs for residency training in psychiatry. Those who were interested in entering the field would shop around for some position in a psychiatric facility, usually a state hospital. Such positions were not easy to come by in those days. First of all, they were civil service jobs, but more importantly they paid a salary and for that reason the competition was very keen. In general, in those days hospitals did not pay the members of their house staff, and this was particularly true of those programs affiliated with medical schools. As a matter of fact, just a year before, a group of us in the hospital system of New York City organized a demonstration [End Page 223] to put our demands for salary before the City Council. Our descending on City Hall in white uniforms was a marvelous photo opportunity for the journalists of the day. The pictures of men in white splashed across the newspapers must have had an intimidating effect upon the city fathers. They voted to pay us—fifteen dollars a month. I had been married a bit over a year at the time, so when I heard from a colleague that a junior officer in the Psychiatric Division of the Marine Hospital on Ellis Island had resigned and left, I rushed to call Dr. Reichard who was in charge of the service. He confirmed that indeed there was an opening, and I offered to come over then and there for an interview. "You don't have to fly over," Dr. Reichard said. "I'll see you tomorrow at ten o'clock at my office on Third Island." Early the next morning, seething with anticipation, I took the Ellis Island Ferry at the foot of Manhattan and crossed New York harbor. It was thrilling to be so close to the Statue of Liberty. The interview with Dr. Reichard went very well. He was unpretentious, genial, and friendly. I got the job. I was to report for work the very next day. The system for naming the rows of buildings on the island was quite idiosyncratic. There were three rows of buildings designated First Island, Second Island, and Third Island. First Island, by far the largest one, belonged to the Immigration Service. The structures were huge, but empty. Unlike the situation in previous years, very few immigrants were passing through First Island to be processed for admission to the United States. It was only rarely that the Immigration Service requested consultation for some detainee. When such a request did come, we did not say, "I am going over to Immigration"; what we said instead was, "I have to go over to the First Island." In fact, in my time of service at Ellis Island, I had only one

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