The geographical extent of the Lithuanian language (and thus of the Lithuanians) was a hotly contested issue for ethnographers, politicians and people for whom the national cause was close to their hearts at the turn of the 20th century. How far does the Lithuanian tongue extend to the south-west, to Marijampole, Puńsk and Augustów? How far to the east? And finally, how much of this language has been preserved at the mouth of the Nemunas? And in what, so to speak, concentration – what percentage of the population speaks Lithuanian?

This issue was particularly troublesome in the case of lands that had never been part of the Grand Duchy in historical times. And this was the case with the lands around Klaipėda (called Memel by the Germans): in the Middle Ages these lands belonged to the state of the Teutonic Order (finally confirmed by the Peace of Mielno in 1422), with time they became part of Ducal Prussia, and after the Partitions of Poland – part of the Prussian partition.

It is true that this area was called Lithuania Minor, and people were comforted by the fact that the outbreaks of the Lithuanian language reached as far south as Gołdap – but the censuses of the inhabitants left no doubt: in the areas north of the Nemunas (in its lower course the Nemunas was then unnavigable, but it was connected with Klaipėda by a navigable canal), Lithuanians were slightly less numerous than Germans – 49 per cent against 50 per cent of the population. But that’s in the countryside; Klaipėda itself was 90 per cent German-speaking.

The Lithuanian subjects of the Hohenzollerns sympathised with their compatriots living under the Tsar’s rule, supported education and the printing of books in Lithuanian, which had been banned there until 1905, and supported their smuggling. However, they were not eager to engage in any serious activities or to stage an insurrection, all the more so because they differed from the Lithuanians on the banks of the Neris in a trivial respect: they were Lutherans, something unthinkable in Catholic Lithuania.

Anything can happen

However, the situation changed when the empires collapsed. Anything can happen in Central Europe – at least that is what the “Prussian” Lithuanians thought, who as early as 16 November 1918 established the National Council of Lithuanians in Prussia (they had their own elite – the Council was headed by Vilius Gaigalaitis, a member of the Landtag, i.e. the Seimas in Berlin) and as soon as possible adopted a resolution to unite Lithuania Minor with Grand Duchy of Lithuania (i.e. Kaunas and Vilnius). Why not!

You can’t change the world with resolutions – unless the world happens to be falling apart, which the great (and smaller) powers use to look after their interests and expand their spheres of influence. All in all, this is probably the most interesting thing about the “Klaipėda issue” – how many and how different interests clashed in 1918-23 on this sandy, rather inhospitable coastline. Lithuanians crossing swords with the French? Before that, the last time this may have happened was when some misguided knight from the Loire joined the ranks of the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the eve of the Battle of Grunwald. What’s more: Poles supporting the Lithuanians in the 1920s? The Germans, who secretly SUPPORTED Lithuania taking Klaipėda/Memel from them?

All of this can be explained – especially if one takes into account the fierceness of France, keen to take revenge on the Germans after the First World War, the Versailles and post-Versailles rivalry between France and England, Warsaw’s efforts to justify its own actions and – traditionally – Soviet cunning.

It began with the Allies’ willingness to trim German lands where they could. The resolution of the “Prussian Lithuanians” and the efforts of the Lithuanian delegation at Versailles were supported – here it would be appropriate to put an exclamation mark or two in brackets, as one does in moments of unexpected turn of events – by the Polish delegation to the Versailles conference headed by Roman Dmowski.

Dmowski, a Lithuanophile?

A sudden gust of lithuanomania among the National Democrats? A momentary conversion to federalism and Piłsudski’s “republicanism”? Not so much a conversion, perhaps, as a hope for a Polish state with Lithuania within its borders. Or at least – concessions for Poland in Klaipėda harbour and the possibility of floating goods down the Niemen. The neat formula “Klaipėda, part of Lithuania; Lithuania, part of Poland” did not necessarily please the Lithuanians – but it pleased Paderewski very much!

Everyone was in agreement on the idea of taking a city on the eastern border of the Reich away from the Germans, so without much concern for the national proportions in and around Klaipėda, but rather for geopolitical reasons (“Independent Lithuania deserves a seaport!”), the so-called Klaipėda Region was willingly created, formalising this in Article 99 of the Treaty of Versailles.

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  The formula was rather broad and vague: the German Reich ceded the lands north of the Neman to the Great Powers and transferred it to the administration of the League of Nations. Under administration – which in itself implied a certain “softness” of the formula – the inhabitants of the detached lands retained Reich citizenship, among other things!

The stumbling blocks (from the German point of view) began when it emerged from backroom dealings that the administration would fall not to the relatively neutral English, but to the French. The French wanted to reduce and marginalise German influence (hence, for example, the ban on the public performance of German songs or the flying of Reich flags) and, at the same time, consolidate the influence of French capital. Because why not? First, from January 1920, General Dominique Oudry (a French military officer, who was also in Polish service for several years!), as head of the army and High Commissioner of the League of Nations, and then the civilian Gabriel Petisné, who stood at his side, were gallicising all over the Neman lands.

The Neman pastis

Well, let’s not exaggerate: in an area of less than 2,000 square kilometres, where 44 per cent of the population claimed German as their mother tongue, 25 per cent claimed Lithuanian and the rest claimed “Klaipėdian” (a now forgotten Eastern European variant of port-Hanseatic Plattdeutsch!), it was not easy to introduce the craze for baguettes, straw hats and pastis.

It was easier to work towards the permanent separation of Klaipėda from the surrounding state organisms and the creation of the Free State of Klaipėda (Freistaat Memelland). And in this matter there was a temporary unification of French and German (again, it deserves two exclamation marks) interests. The French were rather happy about their own enclave in the eastern Baltic, their own harbour for warships, an export bridgehead and glory for France – while the local German elite realised that they would naturally dominate the governance of such a Freistaat, leaving the local Lithuanian peasants to grow potatoes. In a (non-binding) referendum, ¾ of the voters were in favour of such a solution and France began to lobby seriously for such a solution in the Council of Ambassadors.

Just what did the Lithuanians get out of such a solution? In what way was Memel within the borders of the Reich better than Freistaat Memel?

However, such a stance was not supported by the British (because why should the French have colonies in the Baltic?), the Poles (because perhaps if Kaunas got Klaipėda, the Lithuanians would not be so fussed about Vilnius, occupied by Żeligowski?) and (two exclamation marks, please) the authorities in Berlin.

Why? Well, because the French will not let the Free State of Klaipėda out of their hands, and maybe the Poles will arrange some concessions there... And it will become East Prussia: Polish Gdańsk and the Corridor from the west, Polish-French Klaipėda from the east... And if the city fell to the Lithuanians – well, either you can get along with them, or you can put pressure on them: the German minority can be a great asset…

Żeligowski’s example

And the Soviets, like the Soviets, put a spanner in the works. But generally they were closer to the interests of Berlin than to those of Warsaw and Paris – and they had ways of getting this knowledge to Kaunas.

It is doubtful that the Kaunas Lithuanian authorities were aware of all these conditions. But both the rhetoric of paternalism, the vision of “the sea for Lithuania” and the desire to unite the nation spoke in favour of taking over Klaipėda per fas et nefas. Or rather, since initiatives in the Council of Ambassadors failed – only nefas remained.

The timing of the strike was, it must be said, perfect: at the beginning of January 1923, tensions began to mount in Europe over Germany’s default on reparations

On Wednesday 10 January, French and Belgian troops began to enter the Ruhr valley – and a few hours later, when the telegraphs were already rattling all over the place, the Lithuanians started an uprising in the Klaipėda district!

The uprising, hmm... There were a few dozen local volunteers, the rest were regular soldiers, police officers and members of the paramilitary Shaulis formation. Preparations began in December 1922 – and the funniest thing is that General Silvestras Zukauskas and the head of military intelligence, Colonel Jonas Polovinskas, who prepared the whole action, were directly modelled on the Żeligowski’s Mutiny of October 1920! But what does it mean – the common traditions of the Grand Duchy…

The Kaunas government took care to create clandestine, civilian political structures: Committees for the Salvation of Lithuania Minor were set up everywhere in Klaipėda Region: the Committee was headed by Martynas Jankus. At the same time, the head of the Shaulis’ structures, Vincas Mickevičius, made contact with the then head of the German Reichswehr, General Hans von Seeckt – and, having assured him that no German citizens or German property would suffer during the uprising, obtained permission to purchase one and a half thousand carbines, five machine guns and one and a half million rounds of ammunition from the Reichswehr’s warehouses.

A strike from Tauragė

So excellently armed, the “volunteers” under the command of Colonel Polovinksas (in those days, by the way, he changed his name to “Jonas Budrys”, which sounded more “Lithuania-Minor-esque”) took up their starting positions at Kretinga and Tauragė stations on the Lithuanian side. Having stripped themselves of their Lithuanian documents, money, cigarettes and matches, and instead pulled on their arms the tricolour bands in the colours of Lithuania with the letters MLS (Mažosios Lietuvos sukilėlis, Lithuania Minor Volunteer), they entered in three columns, striking towards Klaipėda, westwards, i.e. towards the border with East Prussia, and north-eastwards, towards the sea.

Who was actually going to resist them and why? The French did not fancy dying for Danzig, why should they put their heads up for Klaipėda? On the morning of 11 January, the whole circle, apart from the main city, was in their hands. High Commissioner Gabriel Petisné refused at the first moment to surrender the city – so a dozen rebels and two Frenchmen were killed in a shootout. And then, although the Polish gunboat “Commander Piłsudski”, the British cruiser “Caledonia” and two French torpedo boats stood in the roadstead – the Lithuanians captured the city.

The Entente could not afford to be cornered, so the first reactions were angry: on 17 January the Council of Ambassadors set up and sent to the Baltic a Special Commission, which on 26 January demanded that the rebels leave Klaipėda, repeating this demand even more emphatically on 2 February.

The Great Reversal

In reality, however, no one wanted a conflict. Neither Britain nor France were prepared to commit further military forces, and it was realised that the Soviets’ tacit support for Lithuania could then turn into active support – and no one was prepared for a new war in the East.

And moreover – the thought of the Great Reversal was maturing. The Poles have taken Vilnius, right? And they are unlikely to give it up? And the Lithuanians are boiling with anger because of this, and it is a bit hard to surprise them? And it would be worth finally approving these borders in Eastern Europe and stop worrying about the whole thing, wouldn’t it? But what if…

On 4 February, the Council of Ambassadors changes its front and – unofficially at first – makes a brief proposal: Klaipėda for Vilnius. The Lithuanians will get access to the sea – and everyone will be happy.

Kaunas protests, of course: after all, it cannot officially accept the loss of its historic capital! But in fact everyone is happy: in May 1924, the Klaipėda Convention was signed and the entire district, on the basis of autonomy, became part of the Republic. Even the Germans came to terms with this, signing a border treaty with Lithuania in 1928.

Of course – they had reconciled by the time. But that already belongs to the pre-history of the Second World War, which everyone knows.

–Wojciech Stanisławski

TVP WEEKLY. Editorial team and journalists

–Translated by jz