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Updated: May 26, 2025
The mother walked to her place, set her pails on the ground, and wiping the perspiration from her face looked around her. The Gusev brothers, the locksmiths, instantly came up to her, and the older of them, Vasily, asked aloud, knitting his eyebrows: "Got any pirogs?" "I'll bring them to-morrow," she answered. This was the password agreed upon. The faces of the brothers brightened.
When they returned from church, they ate pirogs, the Russian national pastry, and again lay down to sleep until the evening. The accumulated exhaustion of years had robbed them of their appetites, and to be able to eat they drank, long and deep, goading on their feeble stomachs with the biting, burning lash of vodka.
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