Thirty Days in Lithuania in 1919

In Short

This book serves as a firsthand report from 1919–1920, documenting the author’s arduous journey from America to a newly liberated Lithuania. Through a series of personal observations, the narrative details the physical destruction of the Lithuanian landscape, the resilience of its people, and the ongoing geopolitical threats from neighboring powers. More than a travelogue, it is a passionate plea for international justice and the preservation of cultural sovereignty, remaining a vital historical window into the emotional and political climate of a nation fighting for its right to exist.

The Story

The author, an expatriate living in Waterbury, Connecticut, sets out on a journey to his native Lithuania after thirty-six years of living in America. His path is fraught with bureaucratic obstacles, as he struggles to secure a passport that will allow him safe passage through a Europe still reeling from the Great War. After extensive lobbying in Washington, D.C., he departs from New York, witnessing a harrowing maritime accident during his voyage to France. Upon reaching Europe, he encounters a chaotic landscape where transit is unreliable and personal property is easily lost to the systemic instability of the post-war order.

Traveling by train through Belgium and Germany, the author experiences the indignities of a broken infrastructure. He is forced to navigate overcrowded corridors and contend with German officials who frequently challenge his documentation. His arrival in Lithuania is marked by the shock of recognition; he finds his homeland more devastated than the battlefields of Belgium. Entire villages have been razed, and the infrastructure of daily life—from bridges to railways—has been systematically dismantled by retreating armies.

Once in his home region of Vilkaviskis, the author reunites with kin, though the joy of homecoming is tempered by the harsh reality of the local conditions. He conducts a series of religious and public lectures, finding a population that is eager for education yet deeply concerned about its neighbors. He meets with the President of Lithuania, Anthony Smetona, to advocate for the temperance movement, only to discover that the nation's leadership is preoccupied with far more existential threats.

As he travels through various parishes, he observes that Lithuania is effectively surrounded by hostile forces: Bolsheviks to the east, German remnants to the west, and the Polish military to the south. He details the specific hardships inflicted upon the Lithuanian clergy and citizenry by the Polish occupation of areas like Seinai. These political tensions, combined with the difficulty of securing transportation, force him to shorten his stay.

His return journey is equally turbulent. Unable to leave via the Baltic ports, he must backtrack through Germany, endure a cold and lonely transit through London, and eventually travel to Scotland and England to conduct further missionary work before finally securing passage back to North America in January 1920. The account concludes with an earnest argument for the League of Nations to recognize the rights of small nations, specifically emphasizing that language is the soul of a culture and that true peace can only emerge from the application of moral, rather than martial, law.

How It Unfolds

The struggle for passage The narrative begins with the author’s exhausting bureaucratic battle to secure a passport, involving multiple diplomatic rejections and a final intervention by a U.S. Senator. This sets the tone for a journey where every border crossing becomes a test of endurance.

The voyage and the collision The author boards a ship in New York, only to be confronted by a midnight collision with a Canadian fishing vessel. He provides a visceral description of the rescue effort, highlighting the human toll of the sea in the immediate post-war period.

Navigating the German interior The train journey through Germany is depicted as a landscape of decay, where hunger, lack of bread, and the loss of personal luggage are the norm. The author describes the "regular torture" of the rail system, where service has collapsed into chaos.

Homecoming and devastation Reaching Lithuania, the author juxtaposes his memories of home with the stark reality of the present. He describes villages reduced to straw huts and the loss of his childhood landmarks to the fires of retreating armies.

The political pressure cooker The middle chapters shift to the geopolitical crisis, detailing the specific pressures of the Polish occupation and the bravery of young Lithuanians enlisting in an army without equipment. This section highlights the fear that the new, hard-won independence is already being encroached upon.

The return and the call to action After failed efforts to secure direct transport, the author weaves his way back through Europe. The book concludes with a philosophical argument, urging the reader to consider the ethics of national self-determination and the sanctity of language.

The People

The author, an immigrant and clergyman, serves as the primary lens for the reader, balancing a deep, nostalgic love for his native land with the practical, often blunt perspective of a man who has lived under the American democratic experiment. He is defined by his persistence, his commitment to the temperance movement, and his unshakable belief that justice should be blind to the size of a nation.

Anthony Smetona, the President of Lithuania, appears as a measured but constrained leader. He is sympathetic to the author’s moral crusades but clearly overwhelmed by the immediate, life-or-death challenges of securing the nation’s borders against larger neighbors. He represents the precarious position of a state leader attempting to build a government out of ashes.

The Lithuanian soldiers, particularly the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds the author encounters, emerge as the book’s most poignant figures. They are the embodiment of the nation’s resolve, ready to sacrifice everything for a sovereignty they have only just begun to experience.

The Polish officials and military figures are portrayed as the primary antagonists. While the author is careful to distinguish between the actions of a government and the hearts of the Polish people, he depicts the occupying military forces as rapacious and cruel, systematically attempting to erase Lithuanian identity by suppressing its language and clergy.

In Its Own Voice

"I saw that Lithuania is more devastated than Belgium."

The author provides a sobering perspective on the destruction of his homeland, contrasting it with the better-known damage to Western Europe.

"The young and old are eager to learn, to educate, to build schools and institutions of learning."

This quote underscores the author’s optimism regarding the Lithuanian cultural resurgence, which he views as the nation’s greatest hope for the future.

"If the native language is forbidden to any nation by those becoming its conquerors, the nation is exterminated."

This reflects the author’s core philosophical conviction that linguistic survival is synonymous with national existence.

What It's Really About

At its heart, the book is a meditation on the right of small nations to maintain their identity in a world dominated by larger, competing powers. The author frames the Lithuanian struggle not just as a territorial dispute, but as a moral test for the modern world. He argues that the seven capital sins—envy, greed, and the lust for power—are the true drivers of war, and that the only path to stability is for international organizations like the League of Nations to protect the weak with the same vigor they afford the strong. He treats the preservation of the Lithuanian language as a sacred trust, suggesting that the erasure of a tongue is an act of violence that precedes the erasure of a people.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the history of the Baltic states or the immediate aftermath of World War I will find this book an essential, if unpolished, primary source. It offers a rare, granular look at the hardships of 1919—the lack of food, the loss of basic infrastructure, and the constant fear of invasion. The prose is earnest and direct, reflecting the voice of a man who is more concerned with reporting the truth of a suffering people than with literary flourish.

Modern readers should be prepared for the author's idiosyncratic, sometimes repetitive style and his deeply religious interpretation of political events. The text does not shy away from the intense nationalism of the era, nor does it attempt to hide the author’s biases; he is openly suspicious of the Polish state and frustrated by the limitations of international diplomacy. Reading this feels like sitting across from an elderly immigrant who has traveled across a broken continent to tell you exactly what he saw. It is a slow, thoughtful, and often somber experience that reminds the reader of the immense fragility of peace and the profound, enduring connection people maintain with the land of their ancestors, even after decades of living in a new world.