ABSTRACT
Once, long ago, there was a parade in Red Square on a particularly frosty day. An old marshal who shivered as he watched remembered that he had a flask of vodka in his back pocket, but his fingers were too numb and frozen to get it out. Spying a young boy, the old man requested assistance. The boy politely agreed, but then took out the flask, opened it, and poured its contents on the ground. Angrily, the marshal demanded the lad’s name. “Mikhail Gorbachev, sir, “ was the reply.
