The Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry: A History of Misery and Medicine (Landmarks) (PA)

by J. P. Webster

  Nearing the close of Prohibition, Philadelphians’ frustration with the Eighteenth Amendment showed. But the presence of liquor at Byberry was commonplace since its beginning. Attendants and doctors alike imbibed in drink during work hours. It is not difficult to sympathize with their self-medication. Since the law still allowed for licensed doctors to prescribe alcohol for medicinal purposes, Chief Resident Physician Dr. Samuel T. Gordy openly sold liquor to just about anyone who wanted it, patients and staff. However, Dr. Cairns’s investigation disturbed the flow of alcohol at Byberry. In 1930, Gordy was promptly discharged and his prescription license revoked by the government after it was learned that he had prescribed more than four hundred pints of liquor in one year.

  Left to right: Dr. James P. Sands, Councilman Morris Apt and Director of Public Health J. Norman Henry, 1932. Temple University Urban Archives.

  Mackey commented on the liquor dilemma. “I regret that the report of the sale of bootleg liquor to hospital patients has become public,” he said. “According to Dr. Cairns’s information, employees obtained the liquor from a bootleg place a short distance across the Bucks County line. As a result of premature publicity, the operators of the plant will probably shut down operations.” Dr. Sands, having been unfairly given the bulk of the blame, fought back. “Can you tell me of any institution which has more than six hundred employees where liquor cannot be found?” he snapped. “For some reason or another, whether political or otherwise, Byberry seems to be singled out every two or three months or so for some sort of criticism. We are doing everything we can…”

  Mackey dismissed twelve members of Byberry’s staff when the results of the investigation hit his desk, including Dr. Gordy, whose salary was $4,000 a year. The hospital’s appropriation for 1930 was less than it was for 1929, and staff cuts were inevitable. Dr. Sands complained that his views were not considered. Already realizing that he had stepped into a crooked system, he came out against the dismissals, saying, “Dr. Gordy was my right-hand man. I deeply regret his loss.” Dr. Gordy was replaced in Febuary 1931 by Dr. Robert A. Matthews, who had been the chief physician for the East Group. Matthews took over the operation of the PIFM, at a salary of $4,000 a year. Meanwhile, Sands and Cairns pressed for a meeting with Mackey to discuss the reorganization of staff. The overcrowding was also discussed, and architect Johnson was on hand to defend his buildings.

  “Ten million dollars is required to complete the group of buildings for the institution that I have designed, but two million dollars would take care of the overcrowded condition,” said Johnson. “I could spend two million dollars in a year and a half and that would relieve the overcrowding.” In true Machine talk, he continued. “Two million now would practically relieve that [overcrowded] condition. The buildings were originally designed to carry 6,000 people at an approximate cost of $10,000,000. However, if the $2,000,000 is appropriated, at the end of ten years the condition will then be as bad as it is today.”

  The meeting healed a few wounds but failed to solve anything. Dr. Sands continued as superintendent and began to build a psychology department. Meanwhile, the funds Mackey had managed to get from the DPHC were still being spent, and construction was still underway. Edward A. McNally, assistant superintendent, was dismissed as a result of the report, having proven to be the link to the Vare Machine. McNally was earning $1,500 a year at Byberry, where he spent a limited amount of time. The position was just a political doggie bag for McNally, and replacing him would be a big step out of the Machine’s backyard. Taking his place was Raymond F. Johnston, an accountant for the Philadelphia Electric Company who, ironically (due to the company’s Machine ties), came highly recommended.

  In March 1932, with the depression looming, Mayor J. Hampton Moore, serving his second stint in city hall, again pressed the issue of Johnson’s “perpetual contract.” Upon the insistence of City Solicitor David J. Smyth, Moore instructed City Architect John P.B. Sinkler to design a new dormitory to house two hundred male patients at a cost of $272,000. Moore’s plan was to proceed with the construction until Johnson sued. Many who were familiar with the Johnson contract expected his quick rebuttal. Knowing of Johnson’s old tricks, it was assumed that he would either halt the process or alter the building as to receive his commission of $13,600. Speaking to the situation, Councilman Edward A. Kelly commented, “The other architects [Johnson] may change those plans. That is, he may change those plans completely, in fact, the entire aspect of the situation.”

  Male attendants in uniform, possibly at the official opening in 1926. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.

  Director of Public Health Dr. J. Norman Henry felt he had no say in the matter. “I am afraid he is superior to the city architect in such matters,” he said. Councilman Morris Apt was no more hopeful, stating, “No matter whose plans are adopted, the Bureau of Health architect will receive his commission just the same.”

  Johnson was on vacation in West Palm Beach, Florida, when he received the news. He immediately issued a response. “I shall stand by my contract rights. The authorization for hospital construction at Byberry has been given to me by ordinance of city council,” Johnson flared. “My contract has been upheld by court test. Municipal buildings I have designed are the best evidence of my qualifications as an architect.”

  Women’s dining room, West Group. Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

  Johnson won his suit, and Sinkler’s plans never saw brick or mortar. After this battle was over, the only real losers were again the patients. No new dormitory for males was built, but Johnson received his commission for Sinkler’s unused design. Then, at an almost opportune time in 1933—the worst year of the Depression—Philip H. Johnson died of heart failure at sixty-five. He was attending a dinner in his honor thrown by fellow members of the Philadelphia Yacht Club when he was rushed to Taylor Hospital in Ridley Park, where he spent about two weeks being visited by friends, such as former DPHC director Wilmer Krusen. His wife, Margaret, had died in 1926, and the couple had no children.

  Johnson’s estate proved to be larger than anyone realized. He had managed to accumulate roughly $1.8 million in cash, as well as three yachts, property in Larchmont, New York (where he was also a member of the yacht club), and lavish properties in Center City, Chestnut Hill and Ridley Park. Johnson’s death was surely a relief to many in city hall and in Harrisburg. They were finally rid of Johnson and his expensive contract. But by now, he had already designed over three hundred buildings for the city and state. The last structures of the building plan at Byberry had been completed two years prior to Johnson’s death, and they were already in poor physical condition, owing mainly to lack of maintenance and the cheap building materials that were used. Fortunately, the majority of Johnson’s projects ultimately proved to be well-designed and well-built structures.

  C-6 building, one of two buildings for tubercular female patients, 1937. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.

  The Depression years at Byberry were, not surprisingly, the worst of all. The overcrowding reached a peak, and all but private charity hospitals were feeling the financial squeeze. From layoffs to supply cutbacks, every public hospital in the United States was showing bruising from the Depression’s hits. But in Byberry’s case, already battered from abuse, the Great Depression almost killed it. If it were not for President Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration (WPA), Byberry would have had almost no maintenance or improvements of any kind. The WPA did impressive work at the farm group and was responsible for paving most of the roads and sidewalks, land grading and construction of rain gutters, as well as structural and land improvements.

  In 1933, a new infirmary was finally added, completing the West Group. Built entirely with WPA labor, the new building seemed immediately old-fashioned. It was built using Johnson’s plans that were three decades old. Like the East Group’s tubercular building, the new infirmary was minuscule in relation to the patient population. It was, like the rest of Johnson’s cottages, two stories in height with a ga
bled roof and a terra cotta–trimmed frontispiece. Very basic in structure, it featured two large wings with a capacity for 130 beds and a rear entrance leading directly to a double-sided Otis elevator for fast medical access. The basement contained a library of medical textbooks and a pharmacy.

  In 1934, WPA workers built a bridge over Byberry Creek and dug a pond to act as an overflow spillway and a pleasant scene for patients at the same time. Along with about a one-thousand-foot length of the creek, the manmade pond was lined around the edges with fieldstone, which was quarried out of the footprint of the pond itself. Completing the project was a new underground root cellar. Cool water from the creek was rerouted via concrete passages to flow beneath the new root cellar. Using the flow of the freshwater, it acted as a natural air conditioner, keeping the hospital’s harvest of vegetables and other goods fresh. The cellar was completed in 1941 and was capable of storing two hundred tons of produce. Only the bridge and pond still exist today.

  In 1934, an unknown philanthropist donated $65,000 for the construction of Johnson’s last building, the schoolhouse for the PIFM. Located on the west end of the cottage group, it was built on Johnson’s outdated plans from decades ago using WPA labor. The building had been designed as a schoolhouse but was opened by the institution as a much-needed dormitory, containing an additional seventy beds. The simple, one-story stucco-covered brick-and-concrete structure matched the scheme of the group. It was 271 by 77 feet. Although not enough to cure the crowded population of children, the donation certainly eased it and showed that philanthropy had not yet vanished from the city. At the building’s groundbreaking, Mayor Moore praised the donor, whose identity he insisted he did not know. “The erection of this building, generously donated to the city by a practical philanthropist, is an answer to the oft-discussed congestion at Byberry,” he said. “The mind and sympathies of the donor run to the invalided [sic] children who are hopelessly sick and who must be cared for to the end of their time. I cannot name the good citizen who has come to the assistance of the taxpayers in this instance, but in their name, I can thank him for what he has done for the alleviation of distress in our community, and this I do most heartily.”

  J. David Stern, a warrior for labor unions and a devoted reformer, was also the owner of several local newspapers, including the Philadelphia Record. Stern was backed by Senator Harry Shapiro, who spearheaded an effort to publicize Byberry’s situation. Upon Stern’s insistence, Record photographer Mac Parker attempted to get permission from Dr. Sands to take photographs of the wards. He was denied. After two other failed attempts, Parker disguised himself as a WPA worker and easily gained entrance. Over the course of three weeks at the hospital, Parker photographed the conditions from the inside. He created a damning exposé for publication in the Record. Before his stint as mayor, City Controller S. Davis Wilson tried his hand at repairing Byberry’s public image. His loyal colleague and friend, Deputy Attorney General S.M. O’Hara, suggested that the term “insane” be changed to “feeble-minded” in an attempt to modernize the public’s attitude toward mental health. Wilson wanted to be “the good guy” at Byberry. He came up in the days of Mackey and Barr and most likely had a true desire to improve conditions there. But Parker’s photos had prompted a new effort by Stern’s Record.

  Before publishing any of them, Stern sent more of his photographers in to expose Byberry’s hidden conditions. In May 1938, Record photographer Martin Hyman, hired as an attendant, was assigned to building C, where it was suggested by Parker that three hundred men were kept naked indoors year-round due to lack of appropriations for clothing for them. Other newspapers called Stern’s effort “intrusive” and refused to publish any reports of the alleged circumstances in building C. “It can’t be as bad as all that,” said one editor. “No civilized community would tolerate such conditions for a moment.” But Hyman proceeded with his exposure of the building. Using a small Brownie camera held passively at his waist, Hyman snapped a few pictures candidly of the nude patients on the ward. The supervisor of male attendants watched Hyman closely, not without noticing his camera. He confronted Hyman and made him expose the film, assuring the photos would never be seen. But during his time on the ward, Hyman met other attendants who shared his sympathies. One attendant, assigned to building D, approached him while the supervisor was away from the ward and pledged to help Hyman expose the conditions at Byberry. The attendant was apparently a skilled hydro-therapist who cared more about the welfare of the patients than his job at Byberry. He explained to Hyman that building C was the incontinent ward. The patients living there suffered from an inability to control their bodily functions, and the lack of clothing was due to the constant soiling they received. The hospital’s laundry, also understaffed, proved incapable of constantly cleaning the soiled linens of the three hundred men. The end result was an odor of urine and feces so strong that it engulfed the neighboring buildings. This earned building C a nickname among staff: the “Rose Garden.”

  New infirmary for female patients (rear view), West Group. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.

  Dental office in the new infirmary. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.

  Architect’s drawing of new children’s dormitory (PIFM). Temple University Urban Archives.

  The attendant made good on his word to Hyman and toured him through building C as he photographed the nude patients. The next morning, the attendant was fired. But after ten days, he was rehired. In an attempt to “punish” the attendant, he was reassigned to the “Rose Garden.” Hyman urged that the story of his helpful new friend be told as part of the article. However, the attendant requested his name not be revealed. Whoever this attendant was, he deserves credit for his selfless efforts.

  Samuel Davis Wilson, former city controller, was elected mayor in 1936. Wilson was one of Philadelphia’s most colorful and interesting mayors. Though he always publicly acted as a foe of the Machine, his dealings with it were not unnoticed. His frequent flip-flopping on issues was not unique to his under-the-table politicking. He ran twice for a senate seat as a Democrat, losing both times. When he suddenly became a Republican mayoral candidate in 1935, he was eked into office by a narrow margin over Democrat John Kelly Sr. Then suddenly, under odd socio-political circumstances, Wilson appeared as a warrior for Byberry’s betterment. But the actions of his administration seemed purely political. In February 1936, Wilson began his first investigation of Byberry as mayor. He assembled a committee to inspect the hospital and personally toured the buildings and grounds several times. He almost immediately announced the resignation of his political enemy, Dr. Sands. Wilson claimed that his removal of Sands was all business and that he had no personal motives, but it was hard to see it that way. Wilson’s true reasons for removing Sands are not clear, but his decision seemed like another obvious flip-flop. Wilson said in a budget meeting that Sands showed “hostility” to his team during a previous inspection when he was controller.

  “Dr. Sands will not be superintendent at Byberry after the first of the year,” he had proclaimed months earlier. Sands saw obvious Machine politics in action. It only added weight to his charges when Wilson appointed Dr. Wilbur P. Rickert as “resident overseer,” his personal representative. Wilson instructed Rickert to take residence on the grounds while his committee made its report. It seemed apparent that Wilson’s plan from the beginning was to replace Sands with Rickert. Commenting publicly, Wilson stated, “I have asked Dr. Sands to resign because of sharp differences that have existed between us over the administration of the hospital for many years.” During Wilson’s time in office, he would participate in two more inspections of Byberry.

  Wilbur P. Rickert was an ally of the Wilson administration through the Machine’s involvement with the Pennsylvania Railroad. Big utility and transportation companies like the “Pennsy” had monopolized city hall in the 1920s, and they still held clout. But by 1935, the relationship had become very complicated. Rickert’s appointment to the position, at $5,500 a year plus maintena
nce, looked like a political favor. The forty-six-year-old doctor graduated from the University of Pennsylvania Medical School in 1912 but had no notable training in the field of mental illness. Wilson’s critics called Rickert his puppet and claimed he was placed into the position so that Wilson could keep a lid on the ever-growing Byberry problem. Compounding the lack of leadership was the peaking patient population. With an approved capacity for 3,600, the buildings were housing an unimaginable 7,000.

  Rickert arrived with his wife in February 1936 and moved into the Stevens House. The first issue he took on was spilling off some of the overflowing patient census. Transfers were swift and forceful, as patients were sent as far away as Dixmont State Hospital, outside of Pittsburgh. Some were proven illegal aliens and sent back to their countries of origin. Others were found to be the responsibility of other counties in Pennsylvania and appropriately relocated. At Wilson’s insistence, almost one thousand elderly male patients were sent to a homeless shelter at Eighteenth and Hamilton Streets, which had been set up a year earlier by his colleague. This was seen as another political favor, done at the expense of the comfort and safety of the patients.