Had Hasso fallen into this world in 1938, he would have thought it too primitive to bear. Coming here in 1945, he’d done without running water and flush toilets and electricity and refrigeration for five and a half years of war. He missed them much less than he would have back in the days when he took them for granted.

And there were compensations he’d never had in Poland 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.