The final of the International Bible Contest, Chidon HaTanakh, takes place every year on Israeli Independence Day (Yom HaAtzmaut). The event is broadcast live across the country, and American contestants appear each year — yet few expect them to win. History, however, records exceptions. In 1988, two teenagers from New York challenged decades of Israeli dominance, and one of them accomplished the impossible.

A TV Quiz Show Where the Subject Is the Bible

Chidon HaTanakh is an annual international competition testing knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures — something like Jeopardy, except that instead of pop culture, every question revolves around the Torah. It is the country’s largest televised event, followed by the entire nation; the nation’s top officials are invariably present in the hall. Students travel from around the world, yet the balance of power is predictable. In more than half a century of the contest’s existence, only three Americans have taken the top prize. The crown almost always goes to an Israeli.

Why Israel Holds an Almost Permanent Advantage

The reasons for the host country’s dominance are less mystical than pragmatic. In Israel, Chidon is surrounded by state attention and public prestige, especially within the Religious Zionism community. Schools release promising candidates from regular classes for dedicated preparation; some are trained almost from infancy. The Israeli stage covers around 400 chapters from the most demanding books, while the American national qualifier covers roughly 100 from relatively accessible ones. Finally, the language barrier is enormous: absorbing hundreds of chapters of biblical Hebrew is incomparably easier when modern Hebrew is one’s native tongue. The language question frequently proves a stumbling block beyond Israel’s borders as well — kykNET is launching a new show in South Africa, Die 1% Klub, and one of the requirements for participants is knowledge of Afrikaans. This already eliminates a significant proportion of potential contestants from outside South Africa, even though there are formally no citizenship requirements.

For foreigners, the contest is just one of many extracurricular activities; for Israelis, it is a matter of national importance.

A Joke That Turned Out to Be an Accurate Diagnosis

As far back as the 1970s, the celebrated Israeli comedy troupe Lul turned the predictability of the results into a sketch that became widely quoted. “We are at the Chidon final,” gasps the host. “Of 60 contestants, three remain. The Scandinavian has 37 points, the Sudanese has 42, and the Israeli has 473 out of a possible 400. The final question is worth 13 points. Everything can still change!” The sketch captured a cultural phenomenon in which suspense existed only on paper.

A Quiz or a Money Game

The TV quiz show format built around the Hebrew Scriptures fits naturally within Jewish tradition. Competition in Torah knowledge is encouraged, and in religious circles it is perceived as an extension of study. Entertainment shows built on gambling are a different matter. The wheel of fortune, bets, multipliers, and cash prizes — as seen in Playtech Live Game Shows, information about which is publicly available — are also presented as televised spectacle complete with a studio and a charismatic host. From a religious standpoint, however, the picture is more complex. To simplify greatly and set aside the distinctions between streams of Judaism: the dividing line runs through money. A person who simply watches the broadcast as entertainment and risks nothing is not participating in gambling. One who places a wager is playing, and under halakha such conduct is either prohibited or, in more lenient interpretations, condemned. In Chidon, only points and reputation are at stake, and the only thing a contestant can wager is years of preparation. In 1988, those years unexpectedly outweighed decades of Israeli tradition.

The Exception That Happened in 1988

That year, two American teenagers arrived in Jerusalem not as also-rans. Jeremy Wieder and Noah Feldman were considered genuine contenders for the title. Both knew the material down to the finest detail. But the story of their rivalry ended in a way no one had predicted.

The American Qualifier, Where the Favorite Was Not the Future Champion

The national Chidon in the United States is divided into four divisions: two each for middle and high school, separately in English and in Hebrew. The strongest contestants typically emerge from the senior Hebrew-language division. In June 1987, that division was won by Feldman — with a near-perfect score. Wieder finished second. Contest organizer Dr. Mitchell Orlian noted that the gap between them was negligible, though the American program’s scope was considerably narrower than the Israeli one.

Who Wieder and Feldman Were

Wieder grew up in Monsey, New York, in the family of a physics professor. He studied at the Ashar and Spring Valley yeshivas and then at the Yeshiva University boys’ high school. An experienced synagogue Torah reader, he was competing in the international final for the first time and was remembered by rivals as someone who “simply knew everything.”

Feldman came from an academic family in Cambridge, Massachusetts; his parents taught at Harvard and MIT. He attended Maimonides School in Brookline and displayed intellectual brilliance from an early age. He won the national qualifier having lost only half a point — he had confused the dimensions of two sets of curtains of the Tabernacle. “I was off by about a cubit and a half,” he recalled later.

A Year of Preparation, Two Different Approaches

From September 1987, Wieder — who had enrolled early at Yeshiva University — devoted at least one hour each day to reviewing the material. His foundation was a thorough knowledge of the Pentateuch, which made up a third of the program, but the remaining sections required months of additional work.

Feldman structured his preparation differently. His school released him from classes during the Prophets (Nevi’im) period, and he used the 42-minute slot to memorize texts with traditional cantillation. In the final months, he discovered in the Harvard library an archive of Chidon questions and answers dating from the 1950s and used it as a training tool.

The Two Weeks Before the Broadcast That Viewers Never See

Foreign participants arrive two weeks before the final. The program includes tours of the country, meetings with rabbis, politicians, and the Prime Minister, and a visit to a military base — all guided by mentors drawn from former finalists. Informally, the whole experience is known as “Tanakh camp” — a project for strengthening Jewish communal bonds around Israel and the biblical text.

It was here that the Americans first grasped the scale of the competition. Among the contestants was a student from behind the Iron Curtain who had arrived with a teacher from Hungary, and Canadian champion Sean Zelig Aster. The Israelis displayed photographic memory: one of them moved a finger across his forehead as if turning pages and recited entire passages from memory. “They were a little frightening,” admitted another American contestant, Jeremy Spierer. Feldman summed up the contrast this way: in America, he had simply been told — “Noah, there’s a Tanakh quiz, you like that sort of thing, go tomorrow.”

The Final at the Jerusalem Theatre and the Role of the Written Exam

On Israeli Independence Day (Yom HaAtzmaut), thousands of spectators filled the Jerusalem Theatre, where in earlier years David Ben-Gurion had personally checked contestants’ answers against his own Bible. Television cameras broadcast every movement on stage.

A significant portion of the contest, however, is decided before the broadcast. Several days before the televised rounds, contestants sit a written exam of 50–60 questions, and the points scored carry over into the final. The questions on stage are made easier so that no one is publicly humiliated, meaning that anyone who loses too many points in the written portion is effectively out of contention before the cameras roll.

In 1988, the written exam proved unusually lenient and even included a multiple-choice section. Several contestants achieved a perfect score. “I was lucky,” Wieder said. “The Israelis knew the material better than anyone, and the only reason I had a chance was the unusually easy written exam.” Sixteen contestants advanced to the televised rounds; Wieder and Feldman were among them.

On stage, the foreign contestants added color: Aster placed a small Canadian flag in front of him, and Feldman, in the Israeli manner, answered with long quotations, reciting a passage from the Song of Songs from memory. Contestants were eliminated one by one, but several maintained a perfect score into the decisive round. The final question was posed, as tradition dictates, by Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir. Contestants were given ten biblical occurrences of the word shalom and asked to identify the source of each and provide commentary. Wieder answered 19 of the 20 points correctly. The result: a tie for first place with an Israeli contestant of Tunisian descent, Zehava Haddad. Aster finished fourth, Feldman fifth.

Shock, Rumors, and Mutual Suspicion

The result triggered a wave of conspiracy theories. The American participants believed that Wieder had in fact won outright, but that the judges had not dared award the gold to a foreigner and had arranged a tie instead. The Israeli side advanced the mirror-image accusation: one of the finalists publicly claimed that the political establishment had wanted the prize to go neither to an Israeli nor to a woman. The organizers rejected both versions.

The Winner Himself Called It Luck

Wieder consistently emphasized that his success was a confluence of circumstances. In a “normal” year, with a rigorous written exam, he would never have reached the final question. Nevertheless, the record stands: the first American victory since 1973, when the prize was taken by Leora Reich of the Flatbush yeshiva in Brooklyn. The next comparable result came only in 2013, when Yishai Eisenberg shared first place.

Two Paths After the Contest

Wieder received rabbinic ordination (semikha) and became the youngest head of the RIETS rabbinical school in Yeshiva University’s history. He also earned a doctorate in rabbinic literature from New York University and today teaches Talmud and Tanakh. “The knowledge of Prophets (Nevi’im) and Writings (Ketuvim) that the preparation gave me has remained a resource for life,” he has noted.

Feldman graduated from Harvard with the highest grade point average in his class, received a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford, completed Yale Law School, and clerked for Supreme Court Justice David Souter. He later advised the Coalition Provisional Authority in Iraq and became a professor at Harvard Law School. He described Chidon as “one of the most important educational experiences of his life,” one that opened access to medieval Hebrew poetry, to English-language literary corpora saturated with biblical allusions, and that deepened his inner connection to a foundational text.

A Rare American Victory Still Debated Today

Over more than half a century of Chidon HaTanakh history, Americans have won only a handful of times. The 1988 final stands out against the backdrop of prolonged Israeli dominance for several reasons at once: an anomalously lenient written exam that for the first time opened a genuine path to victory for foreign contestants; a tie for first place that some considered fair and others politically motivated; and two careers that grew from a single youthful competition.

By DAVID TOPPER I was born in 1943 in Pittsburgh, steel-town USA. While I was still in diapers, across the Atlantic Ocean, the Shoah was well under way. The mass murder continued, only coming to an end due to Germany’s defeat in the Second World War. My father was in that war, spending over two years in the Army Signal Corps on the other side of the world – on a small island in the South Pacific. He didn’t kill any Japanese soldiers; the US Marines had already “liberated” the island before he arrived. Being in the Signal Corps, he must have heard the radio contact with the airplanes on the nearby island of Tinian, on those two days in August of 1945 when they took off carrying the nuclear bombs that ended the war with Japan. By the time he came home in March 1946, I was a toddler. He resumed his job at one of the steel companies, where he held a clerical position.

My father was what was called in those days a camera buff. He liked to take pictures and develop the film himself. He built a darkroom in the basement, and it was there that I learned the craft. Initially he just had a simple box camera: point and click. But he always talked about getting a real camera someday: where he could set the aperture, speed, and focus himself. His salary at the steel company was not enough to get an expensive camera, such as a Leica. Although he did talk about these German cameras; they were top of the line 35mm roll film cameras, with the 1/1.5 aspect ratio negatives. I remember looking at them in the photography magazines he bought. Owning a Leica was a fantasy. This was when I was still very young.

I vividly recall the day he bought a real camera. I was around the age of nine, or maybe older. He saw an ad in the for-sale section of the newspaper: someone was selling a Rolleiflex camera, the twin-lens reflex camera using 120 roll film with 2¼ x 2¼ inch square negatives. The Rolleiflex had hit the market in 1929 and quickly set the standard for medium-format photography, in competition with the popular 4 x 5 inch press camera.

I went with my father somewhere on the other side of Pittsburgh. The man had been on a business trip to Germany, where he bought the camera. But he was selling it because he was frustrated with the need to focus, set the speed and such. He just wanted a box camera: point and click. So, my father bought it.

Since the specific camera my father bought was not only made in Germany but had been sold there, all the writing on it was in German. My father loved the camera. He said it produced exceptional images. He believed the lens was so good because it was made only for Germans themselves. At the time I believed this; as I believed everything he said at that age in my life. Now I think otherwise.

It was around this time that my father joined the camera club at the steel company where he worked. There were monthly meetings, as I recall. He was an active member; even the president at one time. Occasionally he took me to a meeting. And that’s where I met Carl, whose last name I can’t recall. So, why mention him? Because Carl owned a Leica. He was the only member of the club to have a Leica. Carl probably had a much higher paying job than my father and the other guys at the steel company. (And, by the way, they were all guys; except for the models. But that’s another story for another day, not relevant here.) Anyway, Carl had a Leica; and he even let me hold it, as long as I kept the strap around my neck. Whether I actually snapped a picture with it – I don’t recall. Probably not. But it was a highlight of my time at the club. Now, before you jump ahead: no, I didn’t buy a Leica, ever.

But I did get a Rolleiflex – or Rollei, for short. Here’s how. My father’s love affair with the camera didn’t last. The catalyst for the change was when cameras started coming out with built-in light-meters. No longer did you have to fiddle around with the light-meter hanging around your neck, pointing it to the subject, and then setting the camera’s shutter and aperture. It was all built-in; you adjusted the setting directly on the camera. And so, my father bought another newer Rolleiflex; this one with a built-in light-meter.

He then sold me his German Rollei. Yes, you read correctly: he sold it to me. My father grew up during the Depression in the 1930s, and this was the source of such behaviour. I was older at this time – somewhere in my teenage years – and I had a paper route, so I could afford it. I don’t recall the price; and I’m sure I got a good deal – he was my father, after all – but still.

I, in turn, loved the camera – even though I had to use a hand-held light-meter. It was my only camera for many, many decades of my life.

One more thing, before I get to the role of the Leica in the Shoah. As I write this, I’m living in Canada. I moved here in August 1970 to begin what turned out to be a 42-year tenure as a university professor. Moving from the USA to Canada was an adjustment in many ways. For example, the role of the monarchy here was a novelty for me. I mention this because I was pleased to learn that the Queen, who was head of state at the time, owned a Leica.

The name comes from the owner of the factory in the city of Wetzlar, in south-west Germany, near Frankfurt. Here is where the first prototype camera was invented in 1914; a camera that used 35mm film. Before that, photographers had to use bulky wooden boxes with large glass plates. The factory was the Ernst Leitz Optische Werke; in other words, the optical plant of Ernst Leitz. The First World War delayed production of the invention, but by 1925 the first Leica camera debuted at the Leipzig Spring Fair. For the name they combined the words Leitz and Camera and got Lei-ca – or Leica. (Note that they used the Latinized, camera, not the German, kamera.) Thus, was introduced the portable 35mm camera that led to everyday street photography and photojournalism, such the famous images of Henri Cartier-Bresson, and others. Subsequent models over the next decades introduced the rangefinder, better lenses, extended shutter speeds, and so forth. The Leica M3 of 1954 is called by AI: “one of the greatest mechanical cameras ever built.” Fortunately, for the average photographer, there subsequently were other 35mm cameras introduced at considerably lower prices by Kodak and Argus in the USA, with more coming later from Japan.

All of this paralleled the development of the Twin-Lens Rolleiflex, which my father and I owned. The Rollei is another example of German precision engineering. Franke & Heidecke in Braunschweig, Germany is where the first Rolleiflex hit the market in 1929. The model went through many changes over the decades, so that up to the 1960s, also according to AI: “the Rolleiflex was the undisputed king of photojournalism, street photography, and portraiture.” I’ll leave that topic where it is.

Now I want to get to the point of all this background discussion of photography. Namely: the account of the family-owned Leica business in Germany under the Nazis. It started in 1933 when Adolf Hitler became chancellor, and the government passed the Nuremberg laws, which institutionalized racial discrimination and stripped German Jews of their citizenship.Subsequently, Jewish professionals—doctors, lawyers, professors, and business owners—were gradually barred from their livelihoods and public life.

At the time, Ernst Leitz II (1871-1956) was head of the firm. The Leitz family were Protestant Christians. Their attitude toward their workers was progressive for the time: with pensions, sick leave, and health insurance. The firm also employed many Jews in various positions, from workers to the professional staff. Seeing the writing on the wall in 1933, many Jewish employees and their families wanted to leave Germany. The company also had offices elsewhere: London, Paris, New York, and Hong Kong. In a short while, the ocean liner Bremen was docking in New York harbour, and Leitz employees and their families were being escorted to the Leitz Manhattan Office. Every few weeks, under the guise of being assigned overseas, another group of Leitz “employees” arrived in the harbour. Each German employee had a Leica camera hanging around his neck. Until a position was found for him, he was paid a stipend. Eventually they all found jobs, mainly in the photography industry.

The same thing happened in the other offices outside of Germany, especially after Kristallnacht in November 1938, as synagogues and Jewish shops were torched across Germany. Thus, many Jewish employees and their families (and even Jewish friends of families) were assigned jobs in sales offices in London, Paris, and Hong Kong, where they too escaped the Shoah.

This continued until September 1939, when Germany closed its borders, after the invasion of Poland and the start of the Second World War. By then hundreds of Jews had left on what was later called “the Leica Freedom Train.” It was all a ruse to save Jews from the Shoah. We don’t know the exact number; but it ranges from 100-300 lives saved.

Ernst Leitz II was able to pull this off because he was not only a respected member of the business community, but his factory was also producing military optics, rangefinders, and telescopic sights essential to the German military. As long as the military was getting what they needed from Leitz’s factory, there was no reason to question the way he was moving his employees around the world.

In general, this was true. But not always. One executive was jailed for helping Jews leave the country. He was eventually freed, after Ernst paid a large bribe.

But worse was to come. Since many of the workers at the Leitz factory were drafted as soldiers in the war, the place lacked workers to keep it running. Between 1940 and 1945, the Nazi government sent approximately 700 to 800 women from the Ukraine and Western Russia as slave labourers. This is where Ernst’s daughter, Elsie Kühn-Leitz (1903-1985), comes in. Elsie had a Doctorate in Law from Frankfort University, as well as degrees in business administration. She was married to Knut Kühn, with whom she had three children. Working for the Leitz company, she treated the women well, providing them with sufficient food, clothing, and living quarters – for which she was reprimanded by the Nazi authorities. Nonetheless, she refused to treat them as slaves.

Then in May 1943 she was asked to help a Jewish woman, Hedwig Palm, escape to Switzerland. Hedwig Palm (née Dessauer, born 1888) was the wife of Hermann Palm, an optician and photo equipment dealer who owned an optical shop in Wetzlar, and who had business connections with the Leitz family. Hedwig apparently was the only Jew in the family. Elsie had an aunt in Munich, not far from the border with Switzerland. So, in the dead of night Elsie safely took Hedwig to her aunt’s home. With a map and some money that Elsie gave her, Hedwig next set off toward the Swiss border. Unfortunately, she got lost and hailed a milk truck. Assuming she was a Jew, the driver drove her to the border police. From documentation that I found in the Yad Vashem, Hedwig was arrested and sent to the Ravensbrück women’s concentration camp, where she died in 1944. Incidentally, the Palm store is still there in Wetzlar. You may find its website under Juwelier Palm, specializing in jewelry, watches, and goldsmithing.

When the Gestapo found out that Elsie had helped Hedwig try to cross the border, she was called in for questioning for several hours. Her humane treatment of the Ukrainian women also came up: what the Gestapo called: “excessive humanitarianism.” Ultimately, she was sent to the Frankfort police prison on September 10, 1943. As she hugged her children good-by, she thought that she would never see them again. The conditions in the jail were sub-human. Minimal food, filthy quarters, bug infested – plus she was sporadically manhandled roughly by the staff. What food her father was able to get to her – she shared with her fellow prisoners. At one point the Gestapo were threatening her with deportation to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. It lasted three months until November 28, 1943, when her father paid a very large ransom to the Gestapo to have Elsie released. Even so, the Gestapo kept an eye on her, often calling her in for interrogation. This continued until the end of March 1945, when American tanks rolled into Wetzlar.

After the War, Elsie and Knut divorced and she got actively involved in humanitarian and diplomatic work, mainly in Africa. She particularly supported the work of Albert Schweitzer’s hospital in Lambaréné, Gabon, even paying a visit in June 1959.

In general, the Leitz family wanted no publicity for all this work in saving Jews. It was only after that generation died out, that the full story came out. And this happened mainly because of the following event.

Like many stories from the Shoah, there are often several layers to them. That’s true for this one too; for I note the following fact. In 1988, surviving labourers and Shoah survivor-groups initiated class-action lawsuits in U.S. and European courts against dozens of major German industrial firms. The Leica Company was one of them, having used women from the Ukraine and Western Russia during the war. In 1999, a Compensation Fund was set up by the government; Leica, along with other German companies, paid into a collective multi-billion-mark fund, as compensation for slave labourers (or their surviving heirs) across Eastern Europe, Israel, the USA, and elsewhere. This may explain Leitz family’s reticence for publicity about their efforts during the war.

Note that Elsie, who died 1985, didn’t have to deal with this. But her children surely did.

Finally, I mentioned before the famous street photographer and artist, Henri Cartier-Bresson, who wrote the well-known book The Decisive Moment (1952), and who incidentally, used Leica cameras. He knew Elsie, and wrote this tribute about her. “I knew Elsie Leitz well and she always welcomed me warmly…when I visited Wetzlar. I was very impressed by her passionate concern for international humanitarian causes, and by the great risks she took during the war to save many people who were in danger. I remember her with deep admiration.” This affirmation forms the Introduction to the book: Elsie’s War: A Story of Courage in Nazi Germany, by (Rabbi) Frank Dabba Smith (Frances Lincoln Ltd, 2003).

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Can a person actually beat the house long term? Short answer, said plainly: not reliably. To back that up, Pinco Сasino breaks down how these games are wired and why clever-sounding systems keep falling apart the moment real money is involved.

Where the Myths Come From

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The usual suspects:

• A machine is “due” after a long cold streak.
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• The last spin somehow hints at the next one.

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What the Math Actually Says

There is a number behind every game: the house edge. It is just the slice the operator expects to keep over time. One session? It predicts nothing. Ten thousand rounds? It shows up like clockwork. Folks who reach Pinco Сasino giriş usually relax and enjoy things more once that figure stops feeling like a trick.

House Edge in Plain Terms

The table gives a rough picture of how game types stack up. Exact numbers move around depending on the rules and the studio behind them.

Game Type	Typical House Edge	Skill Involved
Slots	3% – 10%	Very low
Roulette	2.7% – 5.3%	Low
Blackjack	0.5% – 2%	Moderate
Video Poker	0.5% – 3%	Moderate

So skill-based games attract strategic players, while slots remain a pure coin flip. Still, that edge never hits zero. The house keeps its sliver over the long haul, no exceptions. Reading the numbers first helps players expect the truth rather than a fairy tale.

Smart Habits That Reduce Risk

Real strategy has nothing to do with cracking the odds. It comes down to control, a budget, and picking games with a clear head. Some regulars keep the Pinco APK close so they can monitor spending and session time right from their phones.

A handful of habits actually move the needle:

• Decide on a budget before the first bet, then quit when it is gone.
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• Think of bonuses as extra minutes, never as promised profit.
• Step away often, because tired choices get expensive.

A Pinco promosyon kodu might stretch a bankroll a bit, sure. It still does not touch the underlying math. What these habits really protect is the fun, so the whole thing stays a hobby and not a chase.

The Honest Bottom Line

No secret formula exists. Anyone peddling one is selling a story, nothing more. What Pinco pushes instead is calm, responsible play built on firm limits and goals a person can live with. That habit outlasts any hot streak.

For Turkish users, a solid Pinco oyun sitesi should feel simple: clear rules, quick access, fair terms. Good nights come. Bad ones come too. The players who last are the ones who know the odds cold, guard their budget, and refuse to mistake a bit of luck for a plan.