Eichmanis barely noticeably and with slight impatience shook his head, which was interpreted thus: no, get it over here quickly.
Father Feofan brought out two mugs, having hung them by the handles on his wonderfully long and seemingly burnt trigger finger, which, to top it off, was crowned with a bony and twisted nail.
He didn’t take them off his finger, just stuck them under the bottle of vodka. Only when each was filled to the brim did he careful pull of the outer one and give it to Eichmanis.
“Artiom, come here,” the head of the camp called. “You’re not allowed, soldiers,” he added, looking at the soldiers, though they hadn’t even hoped to be included in such company.
Artiom accepted the invitation with external calmness, but inside everything was rejoicing.
“Feofan here doesn’t dr
