This is a true story about a non-Jew who deserves to be sealed in the Book of Life because of what he did this Yom Kippur.

William is the sort of man who can arrange or acquire just about anything, and very often has. But on that day he did not expect to be called upon. All the people he did things for were at prayer.

He was just settling down for a calm, relaxing time when the phone rang. It was Pete, the chauffeur of one of his clients. “William,” he said, “ there’s a crisis come up and you need to get it sorted dead quick.”

“Yes, Pete, what is it?”

“We need a chauffeur.”

“What do you mean, we need a chauffeur? You are a chauffeur.”

“No mate, not a chauffeur, a shofar. It’s a sort of ram’s horn. The rabbi blows into and it makes a noise. Without it, they can’t end their fast, and that would not be good.”

This was news to William who knew all about chauffeurs but had never heard of a shofar. After a little more quizzing, the story unfolded like a tallit. The Yom Kippur service in question was a private gathering in a hotel far from any local shul. The rabbi had been flown in from Jerusalem and, oy vey, he’d forgotten to bring his shofar. And when did he notice this oversight? When he arrived on the Monday? On the following day, a few hours before Kol Nidre? No — he didn’t realise it until Yom Kippur morning. By the time William was alerted it was nearly 10 am. The clock was ticking.

What to do? William whipped out his iPad, went on to Google (or possibly Jewgle) and began a crash course in shofar studies. He’s a quick learner. Wasn’t it likely, he thought, that a proper shul has at least one shofar to spare? As it happens he did know such a shul (or synagogue, as he would call it). He drove there fast, parked his car on the road right outside and approached the security guards.”What are you doing, driving up in front of the shul on Yom Kippur,” they asked testily, “ and anyway have you got a ticket to get in?”

“I’m a gentile,” said William, “I haven’t got a ticket but I wonder if you could lend me a shofar for this evening.”

Before you could say teshuvah, tefillah, tzedakah, they had sent him on his way shofar-less.

There were no Jews he could consult. They were all praying so there was no option but to take the initiative and make his own shofar. He returned to Jewgle. Surely there would be a site telling him how to make a shofar. Thankfully, there were dozens of them. But time was passing. Things were getting serious but now at least he knew what needed to be done. He found the number of a taxidermist in Wimbledon, not the nearest place but though he still had no shofar he did at least have a chauffeur. He was despatched and returned in double-quick time with a whole ram’s head with both horns, mounted on an ornamental plinth.

As luck, or divine providence, would have it, William’s brother-in-law is an antique dealer who retains the services of a skilled man able to detach one of the horns from the plinth and carefully extract the cartilage to make it hollow. All they needed now was to make it playable. So off to Howarth in Chiltern Street in London’s West End, notable suppliers of wind instruments, to acquire a trumpet mouthpiece. Now, the ram’s horn was an instrument to bring down the walls of Jericho. And, gosh, all achieved before late afternoon.

It would be blissful to report that, when William delivered the instrument, he was greeted with delight and congratulation. “Here’s a shofar, “ he declared proudly. “That isn’t a shofar,” said the rabbi, meaning, while it might be okay for When The Saints Go Marching In, it certainly was not all right for When The Jews Go Marching Out.

By now, evening was approaching fast. Someone in the minyan suggested another shul that might be more helpful. William rushed off there and returned with their spare shofar. His day’s effort had been heroic. He had been tested and he had responded but, in the end, help had to come from elsewhere. As Abraham said to Isaac at the Akedah: “God will provide.” And He did.