On winter evenings in Great Neck, N.Y., a young Frank Ittleman would watch his father step in from the cold, fedora on his head and a heavy black bag in hand. The front rooms of their small house doubled as a medical practice, lined with dark-wood cabinets and microscopes, a hulking X-ray machine pressed against the wall. In the basement, X-ray films dried in a darkroom carved out of the coal chute.
Patients came by train from Brooklyn, and Dr. Felix “Big Frank” Ittleman picked them up at the station, treated them in the parlor, then drove them back. “People said talking to him was like talking to a priest,” his son, Frank Ittleman, told The Epoch Times. “Only better.”
