"Klein!" he said. "You don't mean Herman Klein?"

"That was what he said. I was to find him and hold him until he got
here. But I couldn't find him. He may have got out. There's no way of
telling now."

Waves of fresh nausea swept over Graham. He sat down on a pile of bricks
and wiped his forehead, clammy with sweat.

"I hope to God he was burned alive," muttered the other man, surveying
the scene. His eyes were reddened with smoke from the fire, his clothing
torn.

"I was knocked down myself," he said. "I was out in the yard looking for
Klein, and I guess I lay there quite a while. If I hadn't gone out?" He
shrugged his shoulders.

"How many women were on the night shift?"

"Not a lot. Twenty, perhaps. If I had my way I'd take every German in
the country and boil 'em in oil. I didn't want Klein back, but he was a
good workman. Well, he's done a good job now."

It was after that that Graham saw his father, a strange, wild-eyed
Clayton who drove his pick with a sort of mad strength, and at the same
time gave orders in an unfamiliar voice. Graham, himself a disordered
figure, watched him for a moment. He was divided between fear and
resolution. Some place in that debacle there lay his own responsibility.
He was still bewildered, but the fact that Anna's father had done the
thing was ominous.