When the Nazis came a second time, they had dropped all pretense of friendship. They dragged us out into the streets, and invaded our homes. We watched as the dogs hungrily sniffed out our meager treasures, and fought over trinkets. All the while, our most prized possessions—such as old photographs or family heirlooms—were trampled upon and soiled.
We were helplessly held captive by a pack of dirty, foul-smelling soldiers—most of whom could not have been much older than my son. They fed off our suffering, and grew fat off their cruelty. But their joy was mercifully short lived. Soon, the ground shook in answer to our prayers. They shrank back at the sight of our savior. The Golem was merciless in its attack. It killed some; the rest it drove back.
Those that escaped the Golem’s grasp quickly fled with their tails between their legs, (though I would make note of it later, that our enemies did not retreat very far—stopping just short of the gate). That night on Yom Kippur, we fasted in gratitude, savoring our victory and gave thanks to our protector.