The Israeli Roots of the Penalty Shoot-Out

Cherry tomatoes, soup mandels and penalty shoot-outs – all Israeli inventions! This is the story of the most significant Israeli contribution to the beautiful game


From the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

It was a hot summer’s day in July, 1994. Millions of viewers were glued to screens around the world, watching Italy and Brazil compete in the FIFA World Cup final, taking place at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California. It was a tedious affair, with not a goal being scored, even during thirty minutes of extra-time. Thus, the stage was set for the great climax – the World Cup final would be decided for the first time by a penalty shoot-out! Football (soccer) fans who watched the event still remember how Roberto Baggio, the star of the Italian team, missed the final penalty kick, and the Brazilians were crowned world champions.

It seems that the roots of this dramatic scene reach all the way back to… Israel? Yes, the man responsible for implementing this method of deciding international football matches was named Joseph Dagan, an Israeli journalist at the time. It was he who came up with the radical new system which to date has caused the downfall of many a footballer, brought about countless moments of joy and despair for fans and players alike, and more than anything, contributed to extreme levels of tension and anxiety for all involved.

“The Cruelest of Them All – The Penalty Kick” Ma’ariv, February 23rd, 1969. For the full Hebrew article, click here

Until the 1970s, whenever a victory decision was required in a football tournament, matches which ended in a draw were primarily decided by playing a replay match in a neutral venue, or worse, by flipping a coin. Apart from the heavy burden that the replay matches placed on the players, they also led to complicated logistical problems, since it wasn’t always possible to schedule replay matches in tight tournament schedules. As regards coin flipping, there’s no real need to explain the problem – this odd method had nothing to do with sport, and matches decided in this way were naturally a source of much grief and disappointment. Penalty shoot-outs had been used here and there during several specific tournaments, for example in Yugoslavia. From there, the method spread to Israel where it was used in cup matches (the newspapers called it “the Yugoslav method”).

“The Decision Came by Penalty-Kicks, Bnei Yehuda-Maccabi Petah Tikva 5-2”, a report on a cup game in Israel from May 30th, 1968, by which time the penalty shoot-out was already in use. For the full Hebrew report, click here

Dagan was a sports writer for the Ha’aretz newspaper and soon became a member of the Israeli Football Association, being appointed its general-secretary. He had a front row-seat during the Israeli national team’s fantastic campaign at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico. At the time, there was no age limit set on players in the Olympic tournament, and the Israeli team included the likes of Mordechai Shpigler and Giora Spiegel, who would famously be part of the only Israeli team to participate in the World Cup, two years later.

Giora Spiegel playing for the Israeli national team, Ma’ariv, December 5th, 1969

The Israelis succeeded above and beyond expectations at the 1968 Olympics and reached the quarter-finals, where they played against the esteemed Bulgarian team. The game ended in a draw, even after extra-time, and the Bulgarians were finally declared victorious following a coin toss, continuing on to the semi-finals. Israel returned home, with only the flip of a coin preventing a sensational sporting achievement. However, Dagan had an idea. These games needed to be resolved differently – and following the incident, Dagan decided the penalty shoot-out, used to this day, should be established as the proper method for deciding matches which ended in a stalemate.

“The Coin Defeats Israel – After Extra Time”, Al Hamishmar, October 21st, 1968, for the full Hebrew article, click here

Micha Almog, who at the time was chairman of the Israel Football Association, brought Dagan’s idea to FIFA, the International Federation of Association Football, and in 1970, the method was approved by the international organization. Later that year, the penalty shoot-out was used for the first time in a cup game in England, and gradually, the system spread across the world. Penalty shoot-outs were first used in the World Cup in 1982, and since then, they have twice decided the result of the final. Although penalty shoot-outs have also been criticized over the years, no better method has yet been suggested.

“Penalty-Kicks to Replace Coin Toss”, a report describing FIFA’s decision to adopt the Israeli system, Ma’ariv, June 28th, 1970

Dagan, who passed away in March 2020, was officially recognized by UEFA, the Union of European Football Associations, for his contribution. In fairness, it should be noted that a German football referee named Karl Wald also claimed to have invented the method – at the exact same time – before offering it to the Bavarian football association, from where the idea reached FIFA. But as far as we’re concerned, with all due respect, this is yet another Israeli invention.


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That Other Time They Almost Declared a Jewish State (and No One Noticed)

In July 1943, in the midst of World War II, notable members of the "yishuv" gathered in secret in a Tel Aviv suburb, to proclaim the establishment of a Jewish government in the Land of Israel

Seated from left to right: Prof. Joseph Klausner, Abraham Krinitzi, Israel Rosov, and Dr. Abraham Weinschal

Few people are aware that the declaration of independence of the State of Israel on May 14th, 1948, (the fifth day of the month of Iyar in the year 5708, according to the Hebrew calendar) was preceded by another, almost clandestine ceremony, in which the establishment of a Jewish government in the Land of Israel was proclaimed. In many ways, that forgotten ceremony represented a last hurrah for the Zionist movement’s old guard.

“[British police] detectives were tracing our every move the entire day,” recalled Abraham Krinitzi, one of the organizers of the proclamation ceremony, in his memoir. Krinitzi, head of the local council, and later a legendary mayor of Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv, had some experience with the British police. They had even called the settlement he headed “the incubator of terrorism,” because of its involvement in sheltering members of the underground. The day Krinitzi recounts was July 25th, 1943 – the day “The People’s Congregation” was set to convene in Ramat Gan.

The People’s Congregation will open at 11 am sharp…” – A Hebrew announcement published on the morning of the event in the HaMashkif newspaper

By the summer of 1943, news of the annihilation of European Jewry had begun to reach the country, and many in the Jewish community felt a sense of helplessness in the face of it. Alongside the call from Jewish leaders for cooperation with the British in their war against their mutual Nazi enemy, the underground organizations, the Haganah and the Irgun, announced a pause in the struggle against the British. The Lehi, another group which had split off from the Irgun, was then at a low point following the murder of its leader, Avraham “Yair” Stern, and the jailing of his successors.  The fact that many Jews enlisted in the British army and assisted in the war effort did not dull the sense of rage and powerlessness the Jews in Mandatory Palestine felt about the closing of the country’s gates to Jewish immigration and the negative stance of the British government toward any manifestation of independence.

Given this situation, a group of veteran Zionists of Jewish-Russian background who had been sidelined from positions of leadership around two decades earlier, decided to take action. The Zionist movement’s “changing of the guard” had left no room for the founding generation. They increasingly saw themselves pushed aside, not to mention taken aback by the struggle between the socialists and revisionists. Most of the members of this group naturally tended toward the right of the political map and identified more with a firm and independent approach in relation to the British Mandate.

Their idea was simple, even if not completely rooted in reality: The Jews of Palestine would establish a united front that was independent of the institutions of the Jewish Agency, which they perceived as weak and ineffectual. Based on relative political power, the parties would elect representatives who together would constitute a 120-member Hebrew parliament. Given the state of war in which Britain found itself, and in consideration of the loyalty demonstrated by the Jewish yishuv (the Jewish population in Mandatory Palestine), they believed Britain would recognize the independence of the Jewish authority to be established in Palestine and grant it limited independence, under its protection.

Krinitzi wrote in his memoirs, but not before he made a point of noting his own role as one of the idea’s initiators, that “the living spirit behind this was Dr. Avraham Weinschal.” Weinschal, a respected lawyer from Haifa, a friend of Jabotinsky’s and one of the founders of the revisionist movement in Palestine, made sure to include his likeminded ally and colorful figure Dr. Wolfgang von Weisl in this endeavor. The doctor, who had served as an officer in the Austrian army and bore a noble title, was, in addition, a respected journalist and welcome guest at the courts of Arab princes, who showed high regard for his vast knowledge of Islamic culture.

Von Weisl’s bold and daring nature suited the plan that was beginning to take shape. Perhaps more than it was meant to rebel against British rule, the plan was intended to defy the existing Zionist leadership and constitute a kind of “revolt of the elders.” Van Weisl needed help preparing for action and forging contacts with various groups, and for this task, he chose the young Uri Avnery, then barely twenty years old, who would go on to become a famous figure in the realm of Israeli journalism, activism and politics.


“The delegates in attendance”

In his memoir titled Optimistic, Avnery recounts meeting with Von Weisl and the latter’s failure to achieve the broad coalition for the establishment of a “government in exile.” Skepticism, along with partisan divisions, apparently prevented the great rebellion from being carried out to its full extent. Also, the close surveillance of the British forced Von Weisel to temper the plan of action.

Weinschal, Von Weisl and their friends decided to hold a large public meeting in which a “Jewish Government in Exile” would be declared. Krinitzi volunteered to host the gathering in Ramat Gan, in the auditorium of the Ohel Shem high school, today the Yahalom High School. The name of that select gathering— “The People’s Congregation” — from which the government was elected, showed the desire to achieve a broad consensus as well as the desire to not arouse the anger of the British,  by avoiding words like “government” or “parliament.”

The proclamation began with a symbolic act intended to show the loyalty of the Jewish yishuv: in the Great Synagogue of Ramat Gan, Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Toledano held a memorial service to commemorate those of the community who had died while serving in the British Army. Immediately afterwards, hundreds of the invitees walked from the synagogue to the school building, where the assembly was officially opened. Seated on the dais were the members of the directorate, Prof. Joseph Klausner, Israel Rosov, Avraham Weinschal, and Abraham Krinitzi, among others. Von Weisl’s name was absent from the directorate and from the list of participants. Was the decision to moderate the demands of that “temporary government” what caused him to leave?

Years later, Avnery, who was likely the youngest participant at that event, did not recall an extraordinary historical event. The long, pathos-filled speeches delivered by members of the directorate and other veteran public activists turned the historic proclamation of a Jewish government into yet another toothless public gathering. In the slim pamphlet of the collected speeches delivered that day, the anonymous publisher took care to note whether a speech was received with “sustained applause” or “thunderous sustained applause”. From the perspective of the young Avnery who found himself in a strange event organized by the “elders of the generation,” he remembered it as a particularly lackluster affair.

A Proclamation to the Hebrew People in Zion and the Diaspora” summarizing “the decisions unanimously agreed by The People’s Congregation“, which consisted mainly of proposals for further action to be taken later…

The text of the telegram sent at the end of that day to British Prime Minister Churchill, to US President Roosevelt, and to the Prime Minister of South Africa, reinforces the sense of a missed opportunity, the result of a lack of political daring. “The People’s Congregation that gathered in Ramat Gan,” the telegram says, “draws the attention of nations united in their fight for the freedom of the world’s peoples, to the severe violation of the rights of the Hebrew People, caused by the lack of recognition of the People of Israel as an ally, fighting party and equal partner with the other united nations.” Only towards the end of the telegram is the explicit demand made: “Basic justice demands recognizing the right of the Jewish People to be represented by a temporary Jewish government to share in the war and in peace building and to secure its future as a free nation in its homeland.”

Avraham Krinitzi was forced to admit that the historic conference ended only with proposals for action and the election of representatives, and no practical significance. However, the fact that British censorship prevented the event from being publicized in the press did not, he said, prevent the leaking of the news of its having taken place. Krinitzi mockingly refers to the blackout imposed on this “ideological terror” as the British called it, concluding: “Indeed, there are also those for whom an idea is terrorism, and perhaps not one of its less dangerous forms. It sows the seeds in hearts, in minds. And I know from experience: He who plants the seed is destined to see it grow.”


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Blood of the Maccabees: How a Little Red Flower Became the Symbol of Israel’s Memorial Day

Every year on Yom HaZikaron, Israel's Memorial Day, many of us wear the famous Dam HaMaccabim sticker; the connection between the flower and the occasion was made in the early days of the state


Photo: Efrat Cohen

The days were the days of the Maccabean Revolt, and the battles were brutal. The Maccabees fought fiercely, but many of them fell in battle. And, according to legend, wherever a Maccabi warrior’s blood spilled, a small flower instantaneously sprang up and bloomed, its color the color of blood. This is how the flower in question, received its Hebrew name: Dam HaMaccabim (literally “Blood of the Maccabees”; Helichrysum sanguineum, otherwise known as “red everlasting”). With spring now upon us, Dam HaMaccibim can be seen blooming across the Land of Israel, from the north to the south.

From this poignant legend, which is not unlike the legends of other cultures around the world, one can easily guess the answer to the question posed by this article: How did this protected plant become a prominent symbol of Yom HaZikaron – “Memorial Day for the Fallen Soldiers of Israel and Victims of Terrorism”? Yet, even though the answer is seemingly quite clear, we dug a little deeper into the historical roots of this connection to find out when exactly this link between the flower and the occasion was forged.

Photo: Gideon Pizanty; the red leaves are actually the outer covering, the flower itself is yellow

A search of the National Library’s JPress – Historical Jewish Press collection reveals that the first mentions in print of the Hebrew phrase “Dam HaMaccabim” were mainly quotations from passionate speeches that sought to strike a chord in the hearts of young Zionist Jews. Writers and speakers sought to remind their audiences that the blood of the brave Maccabees still flowed in the veins of Jews who were soon to return to their ancient homeland. Or perhaps they had already returned and were in need of some extra encouragement. The link between the heroism and blood of the Maccabees and the blood now being spilled protecting that same homeland was almost self-evident.

A poem about Dam HaMaccabim, which appeared in the December 12th, 1947 edition of HaTzofe ; the “Blood” in the flower’s name also appears in both the Arabic and binomial names for the flower

And the blood will not rest nor be silent

It wells up from the stones of Jerusalem                       

Wander across the surroundings hills

At your feet, see the red-eyed flowers…

– From the Hebrew poem “Blood of the Maccabees” by Y.D. Kamzon, which appears in the image above

Thus, the cultural reference of the blood of the Maccabees and the fallen may have already appeared as early as the days of the War of Independence. In Haim Gouri’s famous poem “Here Lie Our Bodies,” the flower, not mentioned by name, is evoked in the line: “We will return, we will meet again, we will come back as red flowers.” The idea of ​​connecting a red flower to the memory of the fallen in battle was not a new one: it had become common after World War I, with the adoption of the poppy as the symbol of the British soldiers who fell on Flanders Fields. In Palestine, a new symbol not associated with the British conqueror was needed; one that would stress the connection to the ancient Jewish heroes instead.

In 1950, a woman by the name of Miriam Trop designed a poster for Israel’s Independence Day that included the flower mentioned by name. Unfortunately, we were unable to find a copy of the poster, and therefore we do not know exactly which flower was depicted.  This is because at that time Dam HaMaccabim was also the name for another flower, known in English as “pheasant’s eye”, or Dmumit in today’s Hebrew. This flower was emblazoned on a special medal awarded to the disabled veterans of the IDF beginning in 1954. The botanical confusion was considerable, and that same year, a special stamp was issued in honor of Independence Day featuring the flower we know today as Dam HaMaccabim.

Stamp commemorating Israel’s sixth Independence Day, 1954

Another contributor to the flower’s symbolism during this period was Yitzhak Sadeh, “The Old Man”, who was among the founders of the Palmach and one of the IDF’s first generals.  In one of the many texts he wrote, Sadeh returned once again to the ancient story and appealed to the hearts of the young members of the Palmach, the underground Haganah organization’s elite fighting force:

“Thus time has ground down and washed away the figures of the Maccabees, erased the inconsequential and left us only that which is essential. . . the blood of the Maccabees.  And this very blood, I say this simply and with conviction, this blood courses through our veins. And on this point, as it was for them, so shall it be for us.  And should even a drop of our blood fall on the soil of our homeland, there will grow a small, red, low-lying flower that will be named for them.” These very words were also recited at Sadeh’s graveside on the thirtieth day following his death in 1952.

Photograph of Yitzhak Sadeh. Contrary to the above quote, the Dam HaMaccabim flower is not a low-lying plant but grows to a height of 40 centimeters

In the mid-1950s, we find further evidence of the flower’s place among the Memorial Day symbols as well as indications of the British custom’s influence. As in Britain, where it is customary to wear a poppy flower on the lapel at ceremonies commemorating the fallen soldiers of World War I, an announcement was made in 1955 declaring that elementary school children would be asked to wear the Dam HaMaccabim flower. That same year, it was decided that the flower would be an official symbol of Israel’s Memorial Day.

From the mid-1960s, the Dam HaMaccabim flower took center stage in one of the most successful ad campaigns in Israeli history: the campaign against picking wildflowers. Dam HaMaccabim was one of the first flowers to be declared a “protected flower” and picking them was forbidden. This was apparently the start of the alternate practice of affixing the by now well-known sticker featuring the red flower to the lapel. This sticker is distributed every year in the millions by the Israeli Ministry of Defense.


In recent years, an association known as the Dam Hamaccabim Project has begun operating in Israel with the aim of replacing the sticker with a pin of the flower. It has even set a future goal of growing the flower commercially so that it can be picked without fear.  In 2019, the association conducted its first pilot and distributed 30,000 pins.

If you have more recollections or information about the Dam HaMaccabim tradition and its connection to the commemoration of the fallen soldiers of Israel, if you were there when this tradition first began, or if you used to wear the flower on your clothing, tell us more here in the comments, on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.


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The Last Voice: The Story of Hadassah Lempel

A chilling letter found in the National Library archives tells the story of Hadassah Lempel, whose voice was the last one heard during one of the fatal Battles of Latrun in 1948

“They said she was pretty. That she had big, sad eyes. That she was on her own. Her name was Hadassah Lempel. A new immigrant. Hers was the last voice heard from the unit that breached the courtyard of the Latrun police station on the night of May 30th–31st, 1948. She and the rest of the force were engulfed in flames. Some told about a woman’s bloodcurdling cries from inside the inferno amid a hail of gunfire and the desperate screams of the wounded. And there were the enemy’s stories of a girl wearing a radio headset in the armored vehicle filled with dead and wounded, screaming to the legionnaires to surrender. Her mother and sister who arrived in the country after her, were four months too late. A small photograph and a memorial over a communal grave were all that she left them.”

Article by Menahem Talmi, Maariv, May 27th,1988; click on the image to read the full article (Hebrew)

In 1988, a few months after the publication of her book The Teheran Operation, Israeli author Devorah Omer read these heartbreaking words about Hadassah Lempel. The Hadassah in the article was also one of the characters in her book. Hadassah had been one of the Teheran Children, a group of approximately 800 children of families that had escaped or were exiled to the Soviet Union from Poland during World War II, and who finally reached Mandatory Palestine in 1943, after a long and arduous journey that crossed through Iran.

Hadassah was just 14 years old when she arrived in the Land of Israel, and it was only here that she finally became Hadassah – before that she had been known as Helena or Helinka. She moved from one kibbutz to another until she was eventually drafted into the Palmach, the elite fighting force of the Haganah organization, one of the precursors of today’s Israel Defense Forces. Hadassah was soon assigned to escort convoys bound for Jerusalem.

The supply convoys to Jerusalem left Tel Aviv along the only road connecting Jerusalem with the coastal plains, which passed through the area of Latrun. Due to its strategic importance, the British had established a police station there to control the road. On May 14th, 1948, as the British were set to leave the country, the establishment of the new Jewish state in the Land of Israel was declared in Tel Aviv. That night, the British vacated the Latrun police station, enabling the Jordanian Arab Legion to take control of it. The first battle for the liberation of Latrun, a bloody affair which ultimately ended in failure, took place ten days later on the night of May 24th–25th. The second attempt took place on the night of May 30th–31st. A unit was sent to breach the police station. The mission’s signal operator was Hadassah Lempel.

Hadassah Lempel (second from the left) with her friends; the group escorted convoys to Jerusalem during the snowy winter of 1948; from left to right: Shimon Meizel, Hadassah Lempel, Varda Shulek, Yossi Ziv, Yehoshua and Nehemia; from a photo album belonging to Lia (Tahun) Offenbach; click to enlarge

Devorah Omer, who always conducted thorough research before beginning any book, discovered new details about Hadassah Lempel while reading the article by Israeli author, journalist and Palmach veteran Menahem Talmi, which is quoted above. She read of “a woman’s bloodcurdling cries from inside the infernoamidst the hail of gunfire, explosions and screaming wounded. She read about a girl with a radio headset sitting inside a damaged armored vehicle filled with wounded men, shouting to the Arab Legion soldiers in the police building that their end was near and they had better run before it was too late.

In the article, Talmi wrote that Hadassah’s voice, emanating from the command vehicle which stood at the head of the force, was the last sound to come from inside the firestorm at the Latrun police station. It was the last report to reach the brigade headquarters about the failed attack, about the brutal battle and the many casualties. In her final moments, she reported that the force commander, Yaki, and his deputy, had both been injured. Hadassah received the order to retreat and Yaki was able to instruct all who were still capable to save themselves. After that, her voice fell quiet. Yet Talmi wrote, “Her voice continued to resonate with those who heard, or those who learned of it from word of mouth. And there were some who asked, with pent-up rage, why a girl had been sent to the front line, why had she been placed with the force making the breach, and whether equality between the sexes, between male and female soldiers, was essential in such  cases.”

Even though her book about the Tehran children had been published, Omer was eager to hear more about Hadassah Lempel, so she wrote to Menahem Talmi, asking him to tell her everything he knew. She received a letter from him in response with a chilling description of Lempel’s final moments. From the letter, she discovered one more thing that Talmi did not mention in his article. He revealed that he himself had heard her voice coming across the hand-radio in the midst of the battle:

Dear Devorah,

I received your letter in connection with the article about Hadassah Lempel z”l. You knew her, as you write, from Givat Brenner [a kibbutz in central Israel], and then she served as one of the characters in your book about the Tehran Children. I didn’t know her and I never saw her. But I knew her voice and it has haunted me for years. I did not take part in the battles for Latrun, but at the time I was at one of the posts above Sha’ar Hagai [a location on the road to Jerusalem] and on my two-way radio, which was the same as the ones in the armored vehicles that went to breach the police station at Latrun, I listened to what transpired in the Ayalon Valley.

I heard her voice, the clear, subdued voice of a girl caught in the midst of the awful and hopeless battle. I heard her reports, without knowing exactly where she was. But I understood the situation she was in. Her speech and voice were bone chilling. It was clear that she was already speaking from the inevitable abyss and it was like needles piercing your flesh. The news she reported over the airwaves was grim. Despite her desperate state, her voice did not betray her. And you’re sitting far away, not physically involved, in a relatively safe place, listening to the voice of some anonymous girl sent into the heart of the battle, not knowing who she is, unable to help her, hoping that something will happen and she’ll be extricated from it. But no such thing took place.

Her voice faded. I still heard those who were in contact with her on the two-way radio calling her repeatedly – but there was no answer. I understood what they understood.

For years, the voice of this anonymous signal operator haunted me. For years, this situation haunted me: the experience of listening to the death of a human being over the airwaves.

Ahead of the fortieth anniversary [of Israel’s independence] I decided to write about this anonymous voice. I traced the footprints. It turned out that the writers of the history of the Battles of Latrun mentioned her here and there. I located her sister, collected the material, sifted through it, wrote – and the reactions started pouring in. Lots of comments – from regular people and from those who were with her at different points, some who have memories, some photos, some letters. What is interesting and encouraging: Even in this weary and cynical age, there is still great sympathy and identification with the heritage of the past and with those who gave their lives so that such a legacy continues to exist.


Menahem Talmi

[June 5th, 1988]

Talmi’s letter to Omer from June 5th, 1988, from the Devorah Omer Archive at the National Library of Israel; click here to enlarge

In addition to the chilling description of the battle, which also appeared in the article, Talmi’s letter to Omer contains a personal element. More than anything else, what stood out was the difficult experience of a soldier’s helplessness (in this case Talmi’s) in not being able to aid his comrade.

In the letter to Omer, especially in the last paragraph, Talmi also addressed the meaning of “memory,” expanding on it as a motive and purpose. He wrote: “For years, the voice of this anonymous signal operator haunted me” and “[a]head of the fortieth anniversary [of Israel’s independence] I decided to write about this anonymous voice.”

The agony of personal memory that remained for Talmi, that dreadful personal experience of being a soldier out of harm’s way while your fellow comrades-in-arms are on the front line, and maybe even the urge to atone for his inability to help in real-time, led him to write about Lempel to keep her memory alive.


In the failed attempt to breach the Latrun police fortress in Operation Ben Nun II, Hadassah was killed along with another 30 fighters. Lempel’s mother and sister, who survived the horrors of the Holocaust and arrived in Israel about three months after her death, did not find her. Only a few weeks later did one of her friends leave them a message that 19-year-old Hadassah had been killed in battle. A year after her death, she was buried on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, in a mass grave along with other fallen soldiers of Latrun.

Hadassah Lempel, Jerusalem, 1948; from the album of Lia (Tahun) Offenbach

Dedicated to the memory of Hadassah Lempel, z”l

And to the memory of Menahem Talmi, who passed away in March, 2018

Many thanks to David Lang of the National Library’s Archives Department for his assistance in the preparation of this article.


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