After the Downfall Read Free Page B

or France or North Africa or on the Eastern Front. Velona kept coming to his bed. She started teaching him the local language. And she vouched for him with the castle’s commander, a dour noble - Hasso thought - named Mertois. Hasso wouldn’t have wanted Mertois angry at him, as the commandant was close to a head taller than he was and proportionately broad through the shoulders.
    Average men among the Lenelli - Velona’s people - stood close to two meters tall, and some, like Mertois, were considerably bigger than that. They had yellow hair, blue or green or gray eyes, granite cheekbones, and chins like cliffs. Back in the Reich, Hasso had been a big man. Here, he was decidedly short. The Lenelli had never heard the name of Aryan, but they exemplified the ideal. To all of them but Velona, the first impression seemed to be that he barely measured up. Then one - a bruiser called Sholseth, who was almost Mertois’ size - picked a fight with him. Hasso got the idea it was as much to see what he would do as for any real reason except maybe boredom. Out of what passed for fair play with the Lenelli, Sholseth made sure Hasso understood they were fighting before he uncorked a haymaker that would have knocked Max Schmeling’s head off. It would have, had it landed. But it didn’t. Unlike Max Schmeling, Hasso wasn’t in the ring. He didn’t have to box with Sholseth. Wehrmacht combat instructors taught all sorts of dirty but highly effective techniques. Action on the Russian front was a whole separate education. Hasso grabbed Sholseth’s arm just behind the wrist. Half a second later, Sholseth flew through the air with the greatest of ease. The big Lenello had time to begin a startled grunt, but it cut off abruptly when he slammed down on the rammed - earth floor of Castle Svarag’s great hall. Hasso had hoped that would put him out of action, but he started to get up. The Wehrmacht officer kicked him in the ribs - and had to skip back in a hurry, for a long arm snaked out and almost tripped him up. He didn’t want to get locked in a grapple with Sholseth, not even a little bit. The boot to the ribcage made the Lenello flatten out again. Hasso darted in and kicked him once more, this time in the side of the head, not too hard. Hard enough, though. Sholseth groaned and went limp. A pitcher sat on a table a few meters away. Hasso walked past half a dozen staring Lenello warriors, picked it up, and poured two liters of not very good beer over Sholseth’s head. The big man groaned and spluttered. His eyes opened. He made a horrible face and clutched at his temples. The Wehrmacht officer nodded to himself. Concussion, sure as hell. Sholseth wouldn’t be worth the paper he was printed on for the next few days.
    Another Lenello said something to Hasso. It was probably, How the devil did you do that, you shrimp? With an inward sigh, Hasso made a gesture inviting him to find out for himself. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of these big apes would cream him. But how many he smashed up first would go a long way toward showing where he fit in the pecking order.
    He flattened four and had a fifth on the ropes before the fellow landed a blow to his solar plexus that folded him up like an accordion. He couldn’t do a thing about it, either. The Lenello was groggy, but not too groggy to fall on him like a landslide and thump him while he couldn’t fight back. Hasso got paid back for some of what he did to the soldier’s friends. He’d known that would happen, too, which didn’t make it any more enjoyable while it was going on.
    When he could, he got up and washed the dirt and blood off his face. The Lenelli pounded his back, which hurt almost as much as getting beaten up had. They pressed mug after mug of that indifferent beer into his hand. He drank everything they gave him. Maybe it would numb him a little. Any which way, it was less likely to give him the runs than the local water.
    Sholseth asked him something. The battered would