As I approached the store, there was a line of people around the block, all carrying some kind of bag or attaché case. Europeans, Parisian Jews, South Americans, all waiting to change and wash currency. Once inside the shop, on the left side were little cubby holes with desks and stations, each manned by a person who would take the currency being exchanged and give it to a clerk who would put stacks of currency in various automatic money counter machines—one for every type of money being exchanged—after which the accountant would take it to a back room and return with gold or whatever currency requested, with no paperwork ever exchanged. On the right side of the shop were the gold salesmen. I was next in line. Next to me were three women dressed in full black burkas and veils covering their faces, talking to a salesperson, picking out several large gold-linked belts made of rows of gold chains. One woman lifted her burka blouse exposing at least ten belts she already had on. That’s when I realized that’s where they keep the gold. She bought five more. I bought three little gold coins.
I must say amidst all their bragging and boastful storytelling there is another story worth mentioning that they don’t brag about. During one of my visits I was invited to the grand opening of the King Farad Causeway, an enormous undertaking that was built to link the mainland of Saudi Arabia to the island of Bahrain, offering Saudis a faster route to the high life. The plan called for both countries to begin construction at the same time on each side of their land, to culminate with both sides meeting and joining together at a big planned celebration. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. The two sides didn’t meet; there was a gap, so the emir had to be flown by helicopter to the other side. Not exactly something worth celebrating.
There is a remarkable difference between me and my family heritage and the emir and his. The kings, princes, and sheiks are not close to each other. They live in a formal, separated world of men, women, and children and in most cases are only exposed to the Arab world. From my experience most countries in the Middle East are the same, where outsiders are not welcomed; they just tolerate you, especially if they can make money.
The Shabbos Boy
Our family lived with my mother’s father, James (Papa) Pedone, in his two-story brownstone with a full finished basement, on 42nd Street between 13th and 14th Avenues in Brooklyn. There were no zip codes at that time, in the early fifties. Brooklyn was divided into postal zones, identified by numbers; ours was nineteen. It was an Italian and Jewish neighborhood. Our house was on the same street as three Shuls, the Labor Laicism, a Hebrew school, and Dottie’s corner soda fountain candy store.
At nine, I had my first paying job as the Shabbos Goy of 42nd Street. I always referred to myself as the Shabbos Boy, not Goy, not knowing its true meaning at that time. If I had realized I was the Goy, I would have been pissed. Before I got the job, my friends and I once used the heavily overgrown tree and bush-lined back yard of a nearby shul to hide a live turkey that we stole from the 13th Avenue poultry market. We called him Tommy. Several days later the Rabbis caught us hiding in our makeshift camp, and they tore down the little hut we’d made for Tommy. Then we sold him to them for one dollar.
Despite our neighborhood antics, the head rabbi of the Shul directly across the street liked me. He hired me to put out and turn on the lights every Friday night during Shabbos for several of the neighborhood Rabbis and to help their wives with the mitzvah of kindling the Shabbos lights while they recited the Beracha. The reason I was asked to do this is mainly because I wasn’t Jewish and because after sundown on Fridays, observant Jews are not supposed to touch money, electricity, and who knows what else. In our neighborhood, a story during this era became folklore. It has been said that I held the Rabbi up for more money. The real story is, after walking up two flights of steps to the Rabbi’s apartment, I refused to put on the lights, complaining it wasn’t worth the five cents they paid me to do this job anymore, since they kept adding more Rabbis without raising my wage. So I rebelled, demanding an additional nickel. The Rabbi and his wife panicked, spoke to each other in Yiddish, and at the same time directed me to follow her to the bedroom to her dresser drawer, where she motioned me to open it, take out her purse and get the additional five cents. Little did I know this event and ensuing reputation would follow me throughout my life.
After my grandmother died, Aunt Millie, Uncle Henry and my five cousins (four girls: Bea, Angela, Camille, Linda, and little Henry Junior) lived on the first floor, while my Mom, Dad, little brother Jamie, and I lived on the second floor of our walk-up. The steps had a large mahogany winding banister that I slid down every day.
My dad is Frank the Second, so I am Frank the Third. He always worked two jobs, and tried everything to be his own boss, to be independent, and to provide well for his family. That mattered more than anything to him, to be a great father to our family, and he was the greatest.
Mom, Mary Pedone, preferred to call herself May—she hated the name Mary as much as she disliked her real name, Rebalta. She ran the show, at the center of everything family—cooking, cleaning, decisions, philosophy, medicine. You name it, Mom was right in there. Since Dad died several years ago she is more independent, just like him. Now she is both of them.
Dad was a quiet, silent-type guy who rarely volunteered information and loved his kids and family more than anything. Everybody loved Uncle Frank. He was also the handiest guy you ever met. There was nothing he couldn’t fix, later on earning him the title, conferred by my kids, of “Mr. Fix It.” He grew up on the Lower East Side, Ninth Street and Second Avenue; that’s where he met Mom. Most of the rest of my family lived within five blocks, and at any time there could be at least fifteen people for dinner, sometimes, on holidays, fifty or sixty.
Papa (my grandfather) was really the patriarch of our family; he was born in the seaside town of Cinccola in the Foggia region of northern Italy. He lived in the finished basement apartment of his house on 42nd Street, which connected to his backyard garden. He grew everything in that garden, saved rain water in large barrels, and fertilized it with horse manure that he would gather from the horse-drawn carts that frequented our neighborhood. He also grew grapes and made killer homemade red wine stored in big wood oak casks. As kids, many times for fun Grandpa would let me and my cousins squash the grapes with our feet. A famous family story is one day while my cousin Bea and I were playing cowboys and Indians in the basement, I dipped into the wine barrel too many times and during our play acting, she claims, I hit her over the head with my two pearl-handle Lone Ranger silver six shooters. I only remember drinking the wine.
Every year on Papa’s birthday, the entire family would get together in the basement. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins brought food. Aunt Millie did most of the cooking. She was the best. At the end of the feasts that lasted for eight hours, Papa would sit at the head of the long extended table. His family surrounded him, and one by one, people would line up, children and adults, all waiting to kiss him and receive anywhere from one to five dollars, depending on your age. You got your money only after you answered his question, “Have you been good?” It was a great time, and to this day my cousins still own and live in Papa’s house. During one visit to Papa Pedone I brought along my new girlfriend and future wife, and Gramps wasn’t shy. He politely asked her, as he asks everyone he meets for the first time, “Do you work?” while at the same time grabbing her arm and feeling her muscle, saying to me “good stock,” then to both of us, “Getting married is like two weeds in the field. You both must bend with the wind.” Charli and I bend in the wind every day.
Grandpa Frank Yandolino the First was different than Papa Pedone, more like a patriarch dictator. They both had and taught different values, philosophies, and stories. Grandpa would have something to say like, “Why do you have those side boards?” He meant my long sideburns, à la Elvis. He really liked my individualism and character, and this was his way of giving praise and acknowledgment without breaking his own character and position, also evidenced by his humble referenc
es to his father, who brandished a very long handlebar mustache, the original “Handle Bar Pete.” At one of those family dinner encounters, explaining why I was a hippy and looked like a guru in white Indian robes, sandals, prayer beads, a beard, and a ponytail, my answer was, “Why not? What is wrong with it? Jesus and I look the same.” That didn’t sit well with anyone. After that shock, no one ever asked me anything again about the things I do and why I do them.
Grandpa was born in Sicily, in the town of Massena, on the other end of the island from Palermo. He was known as Iandolino, his real name. When he came over to Ellis Island in the early 1900s, he had to sign his name on a form next to the X mark. The mark and his Iandolino looked to the customs agent like a Y. The “I” became a “Y” and his name became Yandolino. My grandfather said that’s not my name, but the answer was, “It is now.”
The meaning and the origin and history of my name has a direct relationship to who my great-great-grandfather was, what he did and where he came from, and it relates to some degree to what I do to this day. It is derived from the Latin/Greek words that described what your family is known for. Iandolino. I-an (I, me, am)-dol-ino (keeper of ).
I am keeper of the dole—keeper of the wine, food, money, important papers, and treasures that comprise the dole. First names were given to identify you, so Franco III means the third-generation son, named Franco, born of the keepers of the dole.
In a recent excavation of the ruins of the palace of King David—the second King of the Kingdom of Israel, from 1040 BC to 970 BC—archaeologists uncovered large casks (doles) of alabaster and pottery, vessels imported from Egypt, used to store collected taxes paid to the King. In those days the taxes were paid in the form of produce and various other edible items like seeds, spices, and wine.
Today I maintain a similar tradition by keeping everything I collect, in case I grab a ball that I might want or need later. Charli and I fight about this dole-keeping constantly; she wants to turn the large room in our apartment where I keep everything into a den. Why, I don’t know. We already have seven other rooms, so let me keep my stuff (it’s my stuff!) in my dole! People jokingly say, “Call Frank. He must have (whatever they are referring to) in his room.” And I often do. I am truly the keeper of the dole.
CHAPTER 18
Russia and Hardknocks
My office at Bert’s 1775 Broadway was a magnet for what was happening in the music business. I had at least five different projects going at once. One was my representing Joel Spiegelman, a Jewish-American composer and conductor who taught at Sarah Lawrence College. Joel had been married to at least five Russian women and spoke better Russian than most Russians. We became partners in National Exchange Productions (NEP), funded by the philanthropic Mrs. Pratt, descendent of the Pratt family who settled in America in 1622. Joel, Charli, and I visited Mrs. Pratt in her Long Island estate. She was a very distinguished-looking older woman who liked Charli immediately.
In Charli’s Words
The minute we met, Mrs. Pratt and I liked each other. She was my kind of woman. She took me by the hand and showed me around the house and the sunroom where she painted. We sat listening to her tell stories of her family heritage. Mrs. Pratt served English-style high tea on her great-grandmother’s handpainted flowered and gold-trimmed tea set.
Frank explained the mission. It first began when he and Joel were hired by High Fidelity magazine to write an article and interview someone with whom Joel had an ongoing relationship, the extremely controversial head of the Soviet Composers Union, in charge of all the arts in Russia—a position that doesn’t exist in America—Tikhon Khrennikov. They explained that the original idea had grown into a plan to develop a performing arts program to initiate dialogue and implement a new cultural exchange program between Russia and the United States.
Frank showed her letters and correspondence that he was having with top-level government officials in both countries. Mrs. Pratt was excited, especially since she was very interested in the advancement of the arts. Several days later Mrs. Pratt invested in the project.
Now that we had the funds, I began direct correspondence with Khrennikov via telex or letter. As Joel and I were getting closer to leaving for Moscow we had to first be officially invited by the Soviet government, and then get approval from the US government. It was a serious and delicate time; the cold war was truly a war.
Out of the blue one day I received a phone call from an assistant to the director of the United States Information Agency (USIA), who asked several questions regarding my past and purpose of my requesting a visa to travel to the Soviet Union. I got the feeling he seemed to already know the answers before I gave them.
He then said, “You must be aware that relations with the Soviets are very strained at this time and our government is having private meetings to begin formal talks regarding a cultural exchange. We would appreciate that under these delicate circumstances we not confuse the issues. We strongly suggest you cancel your trip.’’
Well, I was having none of that. I politely answered, “I don’t think we will do that.”
He was not happy. Just as the Army does not like or understand the word “no,” neither does the government. He followed my remark by saying, “I see. Thank you for your time. We will get back to you.” Several days later we were summoned to Washington, DC, for the first of several meetings sitting in the director of the Information Agency’s office. He asked with a suspicious intent, “How do you know Tikhon Khrennikov and why are you corresponding with him?”
Joel explained his ongoing relationship, saying that although they’ve never met, they both are composers, have discussed working together, and have sent letters to each other for many years. The director then looked at me, “And what about you, Mr. Yandolino? I see you have been having direct and personal conversations and correspondence with Mr. Khrennikov as well, and now he has invited you to Moscow. The reason for my question is that for the past several years, while our representatives have been trying to negotiate new talks with the Soviets, Mr. Khrennikov has avoided our attempts to discuss plans for a renewed cultural exchange program. Since you both have extensive knowledge and experience in the arts and seem to have a direct line to your counterparts and have decided to travel to Moscow, we have reconsidered and are now asking for your cooperation in discussions to help bring about ideas and opportunities for a cultural exchange.”
He then got real serious, making a statement that had more meaning than just the words. “Oh, finally, since you are continuing correspondence, I request that you don’t lick your envelopes.’’
I didn’t get it right away, but after some thought, I realized this was his way of saying that after reading our letters to Khrennikov, he would lick them himself and then send them.
In 1948, the premier of the Soviet Union, Josef Stalin, had personally appointed a prominent composer and pianist, Tikhon Nikolayevich Khrennikov, as the head of the Composers’ Union and all the arts in Russia. Khrennikov held that position until the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and died at the age of ninety-four in 2007. He was best known in the West as an official antagonist of Shostakovich and Prokofiev, having denounced them in his infamous speech at a Communist Party Conference in 1948. At the time, however, he was playing both sides of the political fence, quietly providing help to those musicians and composers who fell out of government favor. He wrote a good reference letter for composer Moshe Vaynberg, for instance, when he was arrested during the anti-Semitic purges of 1952–1953, and initiated the selection of Shostakovich and Prokofiev for the Stalin Prize in 1950.
The High Fidelity magazine article was really supposed to be a story regarding the controversy between Stalin, Khrennikov, and the widespread belief among Jews throughout the world that Khrennikov was responsible for suppressing Shostakovich, the most beloved famous Russian composer. Although Shostakovich was not Jewish himself, he had become more and more interested in Jewish themes as his career and life progressed. Stalin did not like Shostakovi
ch’s political views or his compositions that leaned toward the West, and he was accused of being on the side of the Fascists.
It was a very exciting time in the political landscape, and as the talks for a new cultural exchange began, we were granted rare freedom to move about Moscow on our own volition. Naturally, we took advantage of this and did several other things on the side that no one knew we were doing. In line with what we were supposed to be doing, we made an arrangement for Gideon Timplet, the head of the Cincinnati Philharmonic Orchestra, to come to Moscow with us and meet the officials and begin plans to perform in Russia and to bring Khrennikov and his Moscow Philharmonic to America.
I’ll never forget the sight and eerie feeling of landing in Moscow for the first time during that tense period. It was a real awakening. I flew Aeroflot, the Russian airline, and sitting in the first-class cabin you could count the rivets holding the plane together. The rugs were not secured to the floor and the seats were cheaply put together. I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell these guys managed to fly to outer space. As soon as I arrived at the gate, I knew I was in Communist Russia. It looked and smelled like industrial machines, dark and damp, stale and cold. Walking to customs, I felt enclosed by the low ceilings, dimly lit by light bulbs that looked like they were giving out only half of their light over the sterile steel gray and brown interior. Heavily armed police and Russian army soldiers dotted the scene, with machine guns in hand and German Shepherd dogs at their side, just like in the movies. Then it dawned on me this isn’t the movies; this is the enemy.
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