I just read Night, by Elie Wiesel. I'm sorry that you have to read this, but I need to get it out of my system.
They marched in slow, deathly lines, barely breathing, although fear of death had long since left them. They turned their heads towards their destination—the pyre, the chopping block. They prayed for the ladder.
Pale faced and starved, they marched, tied together by chains made by the very thing that condemned them, forged in the hope for a few more days of life.
They could hear him now, the monster king, speaking of justice and vengeance, as the fires below him washed away his imagined evils. One mother cried out for her son, but he was already lost in the flames. A tremble, a tear, and she too was gone.
They marched to their doom, and the people stood and watched, for fear that they too would be taken if they did not keep their silence. The axe fell. They pyre was lit.
A thump, a scream, then silence.
Because the purge is just like the Holocaust, except that the real thing was for more evil, far more inhuman. Sorry, again.