Sandor Frankel - The Accidental Philanthropist: From A Bronx Stickball Lot to Manhattan Courtrooms and Steering Leona Helmsleys Billions

Copyright 2021 by Sandor Frankel

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Kai Texel

Cover photo credit: Getty Images

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-6285-5

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-6590-0

Printed in the United States of America

To Ruthie,
still as dazzling as the day we met,
and the beautiful family were blessed with.

Contents

Chapter 1

Heres What Happened

T he first time Leona Helmsley fired me, I never dreamed shed wind up trusting me with more than $5 billion.

Im a lawyer. Leona Helmsley was a client of mine for the last eighteen years of her life. She appointed me one of the executors of her estate, charged with selling her multi-billion-dollar holdings, including highlights of the New York City skyline and billions of dollars in other assets. She also named me one of the trustees of her charitable trust with complete discretion to decide which charitable organizations to give her fortune to.

Imagine yourself walking down the street and being suddenly showered with wagonloads of gold labeled Use only for the good of mankind as you see fit. Thats what happened to me, and the gold has been pouring continuously for over a decade.

Todayliterally, todayI signed checks for several hundred million dollars. When you control billions of dollars, you becomeI assure youvery popular. My wit is now wittier, my jokes funnier, my opinions more incisive and always worth listening to. Friends, pseudo-friends, former friends, would-be friends, quasi-friends, friends of friendsthey all come knocking.

Life has become surreal. On a trip to Israel, I was invited to join then-President Peres for lunch, beginning at 1:00. Shortly before the lunch, I was invited to attend a meeting with Prime Minister Netanyahu, beginning at 2:00 on the same day. I responded to the second invitation with: This is a sentence I never thought Id utter, but please tell the Prime Minister Ill be late because Im having lunch with the President.

I pinch myself to make sure this is real. I think Im awake. Heres how it happened.

Chapter 2

The Bronx

I was born in 1943 in the Bronx, and lived at 690 Gerard Avenue, one short block from Yankee Stadium. My parents divorced shortly after I was born. I was their only child. I lived with my mother in a small one-bedroom apartment. I slept in the bedroom, my mother in the living room. She was an elementary school teacher.

We didnt have money. I was not aware of that, didnt know anyone rich, and had no concept of rich. Next to my apartment building was a vacant lot, dirt-topped and littered with rocks and broken glass. When I wanted to play, I went downstairs to the lot; kids were always there.

Mostly we played stickball. Nobody had a bat. Wed dismantle an old discarded broom and use the handle. The ball was always a Spaldeena pink rubber ball that cost a nickel. I never bought one, but kept whatever leftover Id find and use it until the seam split open. If nobody had a broom handle, wed play punchball: same ball, but youd hit it with your fist.

We also played stoop ball. One of the apartment buildings on the block had half-a-dozen steps leading up to the entrance. Youd stand on the sidewalk in front of the steps and throw a ball against them to make the ball ricochet backward toward another kid who was the fielder. If he caught it on the fly, you were out. One bounce before he caught it was a single, two bounces a double, etc. If you hit the edge of a step at a perfect angle, the ball would fly back over the fielder.

My grandparents, Enny and Poppy, who had emigrated from Russia with only the shirts on their backs, lived on the sixth floor of one of the buildings that surrounded the lot. When Id get hungry while playing, Id yell Enny! and shout for food. Shortly, shed toss a sandwich wrapped in a brown paper bag out the window, and Id have something squashed to eat as soon as it hit the ground.

Enny and Poppy had a little tin boxcalled a pushkein their apartment, in which they or a visitor would drop any pennies or nickels they could spare. When filled, the box would be returned to the Jewish National Fund. Those given-out-for-free little tin boxes now retail for $117 on eBay.

I created an indoor basketball court in my bedroom. I found a discarded wire shirt-hanger and bent it into as close to a circle as I could. Then I wedged the hook of the hanger between the top of the door and the doorframe; presto, a wire basket protruded from the door. My basketball was a rolled up pair of socks. Id be all ten players, and invariably the game would reach the final seconds before Id score the winning basket.

I played outdoor basketball a few blocks away at McCombs Dam Park, across the street from the stadium. Teams were choose-up. Winners kept playing; losers had to wait for next. The basketball court disappeared years ago, squashed like a bug: The new Yankee Stadium was built over it.

Although the stadium was just seconds away from my apartment building, I never had money to get in. Some kids could afford bleacher seats, and by the sixth inning, friendly ushers would let others sneak in. That seemed dishonest, even with the ushers okay, and I didnt.

Sounds occasionally gave away the taste of what was happening on the field. You could tell a home run by the cheering. A long out would begin with the same sound, followed by a collective groan.

I didnt like the Yankees. They were one of the last all-white teams, and that seemed wrong. I rooted for the Dodgers, who had Jackie Robinson and other blacks on their roster. I memorized the Dodgers batting averages to the fourth digit. We eventually got a small TV (black-and-white, with just a few channels), and Id watch the games and keep a box score.

Our home had one luxury: a Steinway grand piano which took up most of the living room. My mother had been a talented pianist in her youth, winning several gold medals in concert competitions. But she became nervous in front of audiences and never reached the highest level.

I was forced to take piano lessons at an early age, and hated it. My teacher was Mrs. Grier, a tall, slim, unsmiling woman who clearly derived no satisfaction from my inability to master even the scales or my refusal to practice between weekly lessons. Id wear my Little League baseball uniform to the lessons as a silent protest against enforced culture.

Charlie the barber, a short, fat, bald man with a pronounced limp, cut my hair every five or six weeks for fifty cents plus a ten cent tip. My next-door neighbor, Guy, went to Tony the barber two blocks uptown, for seventy-five cents and a twenty-five cent tip, and seemed rich to me. Were still close buddies after seven decades.