A Biography of and Interview with
Tevis M. Goldhaft, DVM Class of 1935, College of Veterinary Medicine, Cornell University Author and Interviewer: Dr. Donald F. Smith, Austin O. Hooey Dean Emeritus

Graduation photo courtesy of family

Poultry Veterinarian There is something distinctive about a person who obtains a veterinary degree with the singular purpose of promoting poultry health.

Tevis Goldhaft ’35 was one of those, devoting his career in the private sector to producing diagnostics and commercial vaccines for the poultry industry, thereby advancing the health and viability of the poultry industry here in the United States as well as other parts of the world.

Goldhaft’s story is based upon a family legacy, beginning

Tevis M. Goldhaft, 1935

with his father, Arthur D. Goldhaft, who graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1910 and had a general

practice in Vineland, New Jersey. Tevis was born on July 8, 1914, the younger of two

children and, like his university-bound friends in New Jersey, aspired to attend the nearby University of Pennsylvania. However, his sister, Helen, enrolled at Cornell instead.1 Dean

Pierre Fish was so impressed with her undergraduate academic record that he even allocated

to her a scholarship normally reserved for New York residents. Two years later, Tevis also

matriculated at Cornell.

My father—you know, in those days, your father made the decision, not you—said,
“If I’m going to have two kids in college, they’re going to be in the same place”. And that’s how I ended up at Cornell.2

Tevis’s entering class in 1931 included a several fold increase in the number of Jewish students, most from the New York metropolitan area. He recalls this abrupt change in admission policy to be related to the political initiative amongst New York City Jews to open a new veterinary college on the Farmingdale campus (Long Island) to accommodate students rejected at Cornell because of their religious or ethnic background. Several of these Jews returned to New York City after graduation to establish small animal practices that served the growing needs for pet health care amongst urban residents.

Remaining true to his original goal to become a poultry veterinarian, Goldhaft returned to southern New Jersey in 1935, where he formed a partnership with his father to produce vaccines and diagnostic agents for chickens and turkeys from their growing operation in Vineland. Over the next few years, the company became a thriving family business as Helen ’33, and her husband, Nathan Wernicoff ’31, as well as two cousins (also veterinarians)

1 The University of Pennsylvania did not take women veterinary students until the mid 1930s. 2 Ibid.
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joined the enterprise. Fifteen years after graduating from veterinary college, Tevis assumed leadership of the company from his father, and named it Vineland Laboratories.
Vineland Laboratories produced the birds and eggs on which emerging vaccines were developed and tested. In its heyday, they maintained a flock of several thousand birds and could, for example, make up to 1,000 doses of vaccine for Infectious Laryngotracheitis from each bird. Production plants were also constructed in Mexico, Israel, England and the Virgin Islands, and Vineland also supervised operations in some South American vaccine plants.
The Merial Company, a leading international veterinary pharmaceutical and biologics company, published a tribute to Goldhaft in 2006, calling him a “true pioneer of avian vaccines”, and cited Vineland Laboratories as one of the “first, biggest and best vaccine companies.”3
After the family sold the business to the Damon Corporation in 1970, Dr. Goldhaft remained as Chief Operating Officer for an additional five years.
At the time of my interview in 2007, Dr. Goldhaft reflected on almost a full century of family involvement in veterinary medicine. He reminisced of his father driving through the countryside to farm calls, transporting the local physician who did not yet have access to a motorized vehicle, He remembered the first case he treated on his own—a cow with retained placenta—and he shared the humorous business lessons he learned from his father.
But mostly, he remembers the challenges and the successes he had that improved the health and production capability of the poultry industry. To accomplish this, he was a diagnostician, a scientist, a businessman, a negotiator with government regulators, an international ambassador and, ultimately, a philanthropist.
Tevis was also a husband and father who successfully raised three children: Judith Bea Goldhaft, Linda Goldhaft Johnson and Deborah Goldhaft. He passed away on July 20, 2009, a few days following his 95th birthday.

3 Merial Selections, 2006.
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Interview
Subject: Interviewer: Interview Date: Location:

Listen to the Interview
Tevis Goldhaft, DVM Dr. Donald F. Smith September 26, 2007 Dr. Goldhaft’s residence in Haverford, PA

Photograph by Donald F. Smith

Dr. Tevis Goldhaft, 8/26/07
Interviewer’s Note: This interview with Dr. Goldhaft, as well as other conversations, e-mail exchanges, and a final visit on his 95th birthday, yielded some of the most important information on the history of Jews in veterinary medicine at Cornell. I discovered why the veterinary college accepted so many Jews starting in 1931 and continuing through the decade, at the very same time as the college policy articulated by Dean William Hagan was to give priority to “farm-reared boys” because those from the city—many of whom were Jews—“usually are handicapped because of their inexperience with animals.”1Dr. Goldhaft also answered the question of why his father-in-law, an accomplished veterinary college pathologist, chose to leave Cornell because of perceived anti-Semitism. I had met Dr. Goldhaft in a visit to his retirement home several years before this interview, and my friendship had grown during his subsequent reunion visits to Cornell. The interview recorded here is only the second in this legacy series though it was not published until 2011. (Dr. Donald F. Smith)

1 Hagan, William A., Report of the New York State Veterinary College at Cornell University for the Year 193435. J.B. Lyon Company, 1936. P. 10.

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Dr. Smith: Could you go back and tell us about your father who graduated from Penn, and also your sister?

Dr. Goldhaft: My father2 was a 1910 graduate of the veterinary college at Penn and my sister3 was a
student at the New Jersey College for Women, which was part of Rutgers. She went there for
one year and she decided she wanted to be a veterinarian, so my father took her to the University of Pennsylvania (he knew the dean4 very well). They discussed it and the dean
told him that there were no facilities for women, no bathrooms or dressing facilities, and he
suggested that he call Cornell if he knew anyone there. Well, my father did know a few
people at Cornell.

Dr. Smith: How would your Dad have known people at Cornell?

Dr. Goldhaft: Samuel Goldberg,5 who was my father-in-law, had taught at Cornell. Through him, he knew a large number of people there. As a matter of fact, my father and Dr. Goldberg met at a veterinary convention in New Jersey in 1934, and my father said, “How many children do you have?” and he said he had a daughter going to Cornell. And my father said, “I have a son at Cornell”.
So he invited the family down to our town, Vineland.6 And they came down and I met his daughter. I was intrigued with her—she was a gorgeous thing. I said to her, “When you get to Ithaca, I’ll pick you up at the train” (everything was by train, there was no other way to get there) “and I’ll take you to your dormitory and show you how it works”.

She had been born in Ithaca but she didn’t know too much about the college because she had left there at a young age, maybe five. So I picked her up and took her to Sage,7 the dormitory right across from the veterinary college.8 I got her settled and every day I’d come over and
find out how she was doing. I took her to the registrar and so forth. Finally, they had a dance
for freshmen, and I said to her, “I know just the guy who can take you to the dance.” And she
said, “How about you?” I couldn’t back out so I said, “Okay, I’ll take you.” I took her and
from that time on I used to see her every day, and about a year later, we got married. We got
married on the day I graduated in 1935.

Dr. Smith:

2 Arthur D. Goldhaft, VMD ’10. 3 Helen Goldhaft Wernicoff ’33. 4 L.A. Klein, fourth dean of the School of Veterinary Medicine, Univ. of Penn 1909-30. 5 Samuel A. Goldberg ’12, PhD ’17, assistant professor of pathology. 6 City in southern New Jersey, 40 miles south of Philadelphia. 7 Sage Hall was the women’s dormitory at the time. 8 The veterinary college, located on central campus at that time, moved to the east side of campus in 1957.

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Let’s go back to your sister.
Dr. Goldhaft: My sister was admitted to Cornell. She was the only woman in her class. There had been women before her, four or five.9 But she was an exception. She was in the Class of ’33 and I think Phil Levine10 was in that class, either that or the one before. She was a fairly good student.
Then, when it came time to apply to college for me, I applied to both Penn and Cornell, and I was admitted to both. My father—you know, in those days, your father made the decision, not you—he said, “If I’m going to have two in college, they’re going to be in the same place, so I can make one trip to see them both.” And that’s how I ended up at Cornell.
I really wanted to go to Penn, but I didn’t. All of my friends went to Penn.
Dr. Smith: So you came up by train with your sister?
Dr. Goldhaft: Yes, all the transportation was by train, unless you had a car which very few people had in the middle thirties. You came by train, from the Reading Terminal, downtown.
Dr. Smith: Tell me about how your sister met Wernicoff.11
Dr. Goldhaft: Well, he was two years ahead of her at the vet school, and they started to go out together and I think they got married in February or March of the year she graduated [’33].
He opened the practice in Forest Hills,12 New York, and he had a good small animal practice. He was a very good practitioner, small animal. They stayed there until 1939 when we got so busy we just couldn’t handle it, so he and my sister came and they all moved to Vineland, and that’s how we operated the business. He was in the production part of the business, and I was more in the administration, sales.13
Dr. Smith: Tell me more about your sister, what it was like to be a woman student during that era.
Dr. Goldhaft:

9 Helen was the fifth woman to graduate from Cornell with the DVM, the others being Florence Kimball ’10,
Adalyn Schoenfeld Yaskin ’25, Cornelia Jaynes ’27, and Johanna Asmus Sutorius ’29. 10 Pincus Philip Levine ’32, MS ’32, PhD ’37, later became professor of poultry diseases. 11 Nathan Wernicoff ’31, originally from Brooklyn, NY. 12 Neighborhood in central part of Queens, New York City. 13 Tevis Goldhaft and his father owned and operated Vineland Poultry Laboratories, a poultry vaccines and
diagnostic agents company in Vineland, NJ.

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Well, you didn’t know my sister. She was a fairly strong character. It never phased her one bit. She knew she was smarter than most of the boys and she just did very well as a student. And, I don’t think she had any problems at all. It was unique to have a woman. We had one woman in my class.14 There was none in ’34. The one woman in ’35 got married when she was a sophomore.15 I don’t remember her name but she was a good student and she’d have done well. She was Jewish.
Dr. Smith: You indicated that there was a school that they were trying to start on Long Island.
Dr. Goldhaft: Right, Farmingdale,16 Long Island, an agricultural school. The politicians in Brooklyn and Long Island and New York couldn’t get Jewish students into the veterinary school [at Cornell]. It was the Depression. There was nothing. You would think that it would be easy to get into college. If you had 50 bucks you went; if you didn’t, you didn’t.
Dr. Smith: They took five percent, you said?
Dr. Goldhaft: Prior to our class, it was limited to five percent. My sister’s class had two [Jews], I think, and the class before us had three Jewish students. One of them is a fraternity brother17 of mine, Chet Lange.18 Some sort of deal was made [between the politicians and Cornell]. Instead of establishing a veterinary school [down state], the [Jewish students] all came to Cornell.
There were 17 [Jewish students in my class], almost all New Yorkers. There were five of us from New Jersey, but I was the only Jewish one. So they had this quota arrangement—it was very silent. You didn’t talk about it, but everybody knew they took two one year and three, the next.
Dr. Smith: That was five percent of 50 students.
Dr. Goldhaft: Yes, my class was the first class in which they took 17 Jewish students. Dr. Sunderville,19 who was acting dean, he told us in the first week we were there that they didn’t have enough

14 Two women, Ruth Cross (from Cleveland, OH) and Esther Teich (from Huntington, NY), started in the Class
of 1935. Esther Teich continued to her sophomore year with the Class of 1935, then left the college; Ruth Cross
repeated her freshman year with the Class of 1936, then left the college. 15 Esther Teich. 16 Farmingdale State College, Farmingdale, NY; historically a college with strong agricultural programs. 17 Beta Sigma Rho, fraternity that began at Cornell University in 1910; Jewish students were not typically
invited to join either of the two existing veterinary fraternities at the time. 18 Chester J. Lange ’32. 19 Earl Sunderville ’08, assistant professor of veterinary anatomy, secretary of the faculty, and chairman of the
administration committee (i.e. one of the three co-deans following the death of Dean Pierre Fish).

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room for 67 in their facilities20 and that, at the end of the year, the class would be reduced to fifty. So, that meant that 17 were going to go. But it so happened that none of the Jewish students flunked out or quit.
There was a financial problem, too, you know. People couldn’t afford to go [to Cornell ] very long. My father gave me a thousand dollars a year: that was room, board, tuition, transportation, social life, books and everything.
Anyway, everybody [all the Jews] passed. We had some guys in our class that weren’t too bright, but they got through all right. And some of them became meat inspectors and stuff like that.
You know, in those days, getting a college education was an unheard-of thing. People were poor. I tell you, my father gave me a thousand dollars a year for everything.
Dr. Smith: When did the financial crunch of the depression really hit? When did it start really having an effect on students at Cornell?
Dr. Goldhaft: I think it did about the time I started. In ’31, people your age and younger can’t understand what it was like. Gasoline was thirteen cents a gallon. A dozen eggs was twelve cents. Everything was less costly. To go to Ithaca you either went on the train or hitchhiked. The first time my father sent me on the train. After that, I knew someone who had a car because I got rides. It was a strange world.
Dr. Smith: Your sister was at Cornell when Veranus Moore21 and Pierre Fish22 died. They died before you got there.
Dr. Goldhaft: I think my father knew Fish. My sister was admitted in ’29. I think it was Fish that my father talked to. I was admitted in the spring or summer of ’31. Sunderville23 was the acting dean. And my father-in-law was gone [by then]. But he had a medical degree by then.24

20 The number of matriculating students was actually substantially higher than 67. In a subsequent conversation
with Dr. Goldhaft, he acknowledged that the class size was larger than 67 but was confident that 17 was the
number of students whom the dean indicated would be gone by the end of the term. In later written communication, Dr. Goldhaft identified 16 of the 17 Jews who started in 1931. He was unsure of the 17th. 21 Veranus Alva Moore, MD, VMD, DSc, professor emeritus and dean of the college (1908-29), deceased Feb
11, 1931. 22 Pierre Augustine Fish, DSc, DVM ’99, professor of veterinary physiology and dean of the college (1929-31),
deceased Feb 19, 1931. 23After the untimely death of Dean Fish in January 1931, university president Ferrand appointed three faculty to
serve as the administrative triumvirate (Birch, Sunderville, Hagan). They served with Dr. Sunderville as
committee chair until Dr. Hagan was appointed dean in June 1932. 24 Samuel A. Goldberg ’12, PhD ’17. Served on the faculty as assistant professor of pathology; left Cornell circa
1925-26.

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Dr. Smith: Tell me about your father-in-law.
Dr. Goldhaft: Samuel Goldberg. He graduated in 1917 from Cornell vet school. He got a master’s degree in science and a PhD at Cornell. About 1923, he moved to New York and started to go to NYU Medical School.
Dr. Smith: Why did he leave Cornell?
Dr. Goldhaft: Do you want me to be very frank with you? [Yes] Because they told him that no Jew was ever going to be a tenured professor at Cornell.25 He figured there’s no future. So, he went to medical school and he taught pathology to the students of his own class. He graduated medical school and immediately went to work at the Newark Presbyterian Hospital (1928).
They didn’t have a laboratory and they needed to open a big laboratory, and he did it for them. He was a good pathologist and I used to go and visit him. He used to take me to the post mortems. He did post mortems in the city of Newark, accident cases and all that kind of stuff. He was there until he died; he died at age 85. He didn’t practice much in the last four or five years, but he really was a good pathologist.
Dr. Smith: If you don’t mind me asking, how were you treated by the non-Jewish students?
Dr. Goldhaft: Very well. I had—we had— no problem. The students had no problem.26 I think that the problem was with the older faculty, the old people. We had good students. There were good ones that were Jewish and [good ones that were] not Jewish. I never had any problem kind of problem. Some of my best friends were non-Jewish.
I’d say as a group we got along pretty well. The question was, could we pay next week’s food bill, if you know what I mean. Everybody was worried. They had to have a second job or something. It was hard. Veterinary school required a lot of homework, reading, memorizing.
Dr. Smith: Was there ever any question that you would go back to work with your Dad in the vaccine business?
Dr. Goldhaft:

25 Dr. Goldberg’s son, Edwin Gilbert ’43, independently recounts a similar story about why his father left
Cornell (personal communication, 2008). 26 See interview with classmate Clifford Hoppenstedt ’35, in which he also states that there was a good
relationship between Jews and non-Jews in their class.

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I had no problem with that. I have to explain to you. When I was in high school I got a job with the State of New Jersey. I worked on a New Jersey egg-laying [farm] where they had 100 individual houses—small houses—and each one had 12-13 pullets and one rooster. They were breeding tests and they had to be trap-nested27 five times a day. I recorded when they laid eggs. I worked there for two or three summers, starting as a sophomore in high school.
I’ll never forget when I got the first check: $60 for a month’s work. I took it to the bank—I was 13 or 14 years old. But the teller in the bank asked me where I got the check. I told him I worked for it. So he said, “Well, let me check into it.” He went in the back room and he called my father and he said, “Your son’s in here with a $60 State check. Where did he get it?”
From then on, I had no problems. I worked for two years taking care of poultry. I was good at it. I could handle the work when guys would go on vacation. It was no problem for me at all. I knew the husbandry of poultry-raising, and I was interested in it.
My father was a good veterinarian, [looking after] breeding horses. My father could castrate a young colt in a standing position.
Dr. Smith: I never thought of your father doing general practice.
Dr. Goldhaft: He had an advantage. He moved to Vineland. He had a car, so he not only could drive out to the farmers—they called him to go out—but he took physicians [with him to their calls]. Dr. Cunningham, he used to drive him to treat humans. You know, to help him out—they were friends.
At any rate, my father did primarily cattle work, dairy cattle. And occasionally horses, because there were no tractors. He started with a small animal practice about 1928 or so. There was a need for it. He opened a place and did it in the evenings. But there was never a question about small animals for me; it was poultry all the way from the beginning.
Dr. Smith: So tell me how he would castrate a horse.
Dr. Goldhaft: He’d castrate a horse in a standing position. Colts! And I said to him, “How do you do it?” And he said to me, “All you have to do is be quick”. He would put a twitch on the nose and have someone hold it tight. And he would stand to the long side of them and grab the testicles and ‘cut, cut’ and two quick pulls and that was it.

27 Laying nests that allow operator to determine the number of eggs produced by each hen.
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I remember a hog-raiser once—they used to feed garbage to the hogs28—it was in the middle of the war, and this guy wanted pigs castrated. He said you can vaccinate them too, for hog cholera. So I went out there and I must have vaccinated 200 hogs, and castrated about 100 small male pigs. But those were the early days and you did anything.
My father lived in Philadelphia and he worked at Byberry.29 He was in charge of the horses at the hospital for the mentally disordered.
Dr. Smith: What were the small animal diseases and operations that your Dad would have done?
Dr. Goldhaft: He did spay operations on female dogs. He lanced abscesses and things like that. He got a lot of fractures, from accidents. Automobiles were becoming popular and dogs used to chase them. My father was not a good small animal practitioner. He hated it. You know, he didn’t like it; he liked large animals.
And then, when I got there, we really got into the poultry aspect.
Dr. Smith: You told me once that there were other members of the family who came into the business [Vineland Laboratories].
Dr. Goldhaft: Yes, I had two cousins that were veterinarians: one from Penn—Leonard Mirskey30—he was about Class of ’37 or ’38; and Theodore Grayev, from Auburn.
We had a small animal place that my brother-in-law31 came to run. We turned it over to my cousin.
Dr. Smith: So that’s six people, then: you, your sister, your brother-in-law, two cousins and your father.
Dr. Goldhaft: Right. And my first wife’s brother was a veterinarian, Edwin Gilbert.32 He was in New Jersey in the health department.
Dr. Smith: And was he was a Cornell graduate?
Dr. Goldhaft:

28 For reference to garbage-fed pigs, see interview with Dr. Andrew Draper ’38. 29 Byberry Mental Hospital, later became Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry. 30 Leonard Mirsky ’38 (VMD, Univ of Penn). 31 Nathan Wernicoff ’31. 32 Edwin O. Gilbert ’43, originally from West Orange, NJ; deceased.
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Yes, he went to Tennessee first, then he went to Cornell.
Dr. Smith: So you remember people like Dr. Udall?33
Dr. Goldhaft: Yeh—materia medica34—he taught me a lesson. I asked him a question, “Do I have to memorize the doses of drugs for goats and sheep, and so forth?” And he said, “It’s very simple, I’ll give you a tip. It goes by weight: the bigger the animal, the bigger the dose. So if you can figure out what’s needed, you can proportion it down or up, either way.” He was good; I liked him.
Of course, in those days, we dispensed drugs to small animals, even large animals. The first case I had, I’ll never forget it. I got married and I came back to Vineland and I had a car: a Ford, a two-door coup—cost $603.00 new. The famer called up and they had a cow with retained afterbirth. And I went out and I looked at the cow and the afterbirth was hanging. I told him, “I’m going to give the cow an injection and if that doesn’t pass it, I’ll come back in about six hours”. And I gave her some pituitin.35
And I said to him, “You call me by 2:00pm and let me know what happens.” So, before 2:00—about 12:00—he called me and he said the cow had passed the afterbirth and everything was all right. I told my father my great success. My first case!
And he said me, “How much did you charge him?” I said, “I think I charged him $3.00”. He said, “Where does he live?” I told him. He said, “That’s 12 miles from here.” I said “Yes, I had to drive there.” He said, “You drove 12 miles there and 12 miles back; that’s 24 miles.” And he said, “You used how much pituitin?” And I said, “Two-to-three cc’s, I think it was.” He said, “That’s about $5.00 worth of pituitin. How much did you charge him?”
I said, “three dollars.” He said, “Well you only lost four or five.” So that taught me my first lesson, that there was more to veterinary medicine than treating the animal. But he was goodnatured about it.
In the beginning I did some large animal work. We’d take calls and I’d go out. I was good at delivering some cows36 because I was big, physically big, and my father was short and it was hard for him with some of these dairy cows. So I had no problem with that, but I didn’t do much of it. I did some.
But I did a lot of on-call poultry work, where chickens were sick and they would call so I would go look at them and diagnose the problem. It worked out pretty good.
Dr. Smith:

33 Dennie Hammond Udall ’01, professor of veterinary medicine and hygiene. 34 Pharmacology, medicine. 35 Hormonal treatment for placental retention. 36 Obstetrical cases.
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Dr. Lasher,37 do you know him very well?
Dr. Goldhaft: Yes. When he graduated college, he came to our place. He spent about a week with us. He graduated in ’42 or ’43, right in the middle of the war. We showed him around. We had nothing to hide and then he went down to Delaware and he ultimately went into business and was quite a success. He and I are very friendly. He sends me e-mails and news items of the world veterinary poultry. We still communicate and I hear from him a couple times a week.
Going to college in the 1930s was a little different than it is today. Today, everybody goes to college. In my high school class there were 120 people: there may have been four people who went to college, four or five.
I remember I had a classmate, he worked at a fruit market and he was making $14 a week for a 60-hour week. I came home from Cornell one day in my sophomore or junior year, and I met him, and I said, “How are you doing?” And he said, “Terrific, I got a raise to $17 a week and now I can get married.”
You know, people today, they don’t believe you, but it’s how it was. When I started with my father, I got $25 a week. I had to rent a home ($37 a month), and I had children a year after I got married. Ultimately, as the business began to build up, then I began to make more money. But in the beginning, we kept a [financial record] book—I didn’t smoke, so we didn’t have that expense. Later, I smoked, smoked too damn much—I smoked for 50 years, and then for 25 years, I did not smoke. I had pneumothorax last fall, a collapsed left lung. Now, I have the aftermath in the form of a respiratory problem, and it’s attributable to both old age and lung damage. My sister had emphysema, my mother had emphysema, and I have it.
Dr. Smith: When did your sister pass on?
Dr. Goldhaft: My sister died when she was 86 and she was three years older than me, so she would have been 96 now [in 2007]. She died ten years ago.
Dr. Smith: How about her husband, Wernicoff. Did he have a family as well?
Dr. Goldhaft: Wernicoff had sisters. I only knew one sister. They were in New York. I didn’t know the whole family. I never knew his father. His father lived in Providence [Rhode Island], but I had spoken to him on the phone. Wernicoff was a good small animal practitioner. We converted him into the poultry industry. He handled the production. I have a picture of myself, my father, my brother-in-law, and another man. My brother-in-law has a tray of eggs

37 Hiram N. Lasher ’42, a competitor in the poultry industry originally from Catskill, NY; currently living in Millsboro, Del.

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that he was inoculating or harvesting, and it said, The One Millionth Egg. And this was way back; it was an advertisement.
Is that all we need?
Dr. Smith: I think so. That was terrific.

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