Jozef Mackiewicz's article 'Jak Wilno przechodzło z rąk do rąk' in the periodical 'Świat', 1934, no. 11, pp. 7-9 (public domain, reprinted after the Mazowiecka Biblioteka Cyforwa) vividly describes his memories of the defence of Vilnius in 1920. The article is illustrated with photographs depicting the Gates of Dawn and the Church of St Francis and St Bernard in Vilnius.

A modernised reading of the text

HOW VILNIUS PASSED FROM HAND TO HAND

Du, Dragone... - said gefreiter Ludwik Schreier ironically to a perpetually sleepy dragoon to whom everything was 'Wurst'. What this one's name was, I can't remember. Maybe August Müller? They all resembled each other in those yellow soft boots, flush to the knees, in feldgrau, with yellow cap lugs. -

"Du, sich s mai, du Elefantenkind, du Ziegenbockreiter, du!"... He was to see that the stable was not clean. This stable had been used for cug horses before the war. But in the summer of 1917-"jugging horse" in Lithuanian manors was an archaic term, forgotten, an impossibility. Now there were six dragoon horses in this stable, and in the empty cottage where the outbreak of war dispersed dreams of setting up a centrefold - there were six ... "die braven Soldaten des Dragonenregiments".

Beautiful was the life of Gefreiter Ludwig Schreier and his five subordinates. If, instead of the pre-war figure of one hundred Anglo-Saxons and fifty Dutchmen, ninety more head of cattle were herded out to feed - there was enough milk, and butter, and buttermilk, and cheese for the manor house, the journeymen and the dragoons. The summer of 1917 was completely 'pre-war'. That is, reasonably hot, fragrant with lime trees, blooming with gazons of roses, geraniums, georgias, peonies. The grass was being cut and the gardener was carrying foreign plants out of the conservatory.

Autumn bore fruit that the branches were breaking. Our gefreiter warned carefully that his "bravi" dragoons should not steal apples, and having seen one in the orchard, he spoke to him with persuasion: "Du, Schweinhund du, mach dass du davon kommst!". And only then did he personally set about eating the plums and pears. - This is how one lived, and lived only for the future and the hope of an imminent change. And change did come. The year 1918 was coming to an end in the autumn months. One day a foreign dragoon came to the manor house, and with it the "Befehl"! - An hour later, the heavy yellow boots rumbled on the kitchen stairs.

Everyone was there with the gefreiter in the lead. Only rarely did the spurs sound. They came to the sideboard room to say goodbye, lined up beautifully, in their belts, by their cavalry bayonets, even took off their caps in the local manner. They thought it appropriate to bid the heiress farewell and thank the lady of the house: "Jawohl, Gnädige Frau! es ist Krieg"! Off they went. They were carried by trakens grazing on Lithuanian oats, and the tips of field "helmets" stood out from the cloud of dust. There was silence. The caravans pulled along the road.

That's where Gefreiter des Dragonenregiments Ludwig Schreier, hoch zu Ross, in civilian clothes I think - Briefträger (postman), went. From Oshmiany and Lida, from Swieciany, Panevėžys and Šiauliai, tracts, roads and inns were smoking in the dust. The Grand Army was leaving Lithuania. Meanwhile, in Vilnius... Autumn and winter of 1918. Great events took place in life and on the fronts. What an expression they found at the Vilnius railway station. Queues to the ticket offices, to the trains, to the offices for passes. At that time, the railway station was acquired with patronage, bribes, cunning and strong elbows. People there lived through the hard hours of sleepless nights, anxious days of waiting.

The hour struck when the last trains left for Kaunas and Bialystok. There was no longer a gendarme or feldgrau - or Militärpolizei - walking on the platform, but only a scruffy type in a red armband with a "wintówka" in his hand. In July 1920, Jerzy Dąbrowski's unit was hastily piecing together a new cavalry unit. We were stationed at Antokol. We were joined by a considerable part of the Tatar cavalry that had been broken up somewhere. We also had as immediate colleagues a large detachment of Cuban Cossacks, splintered from Denikin's army.

Everyone knew at the time that our front had been broken through and that the enemy was advancing on Vilnius, but no one could ascertain where we would meet him; it was presumed to be somewhere far north of Vilnius. Three times during the day, which was all too long, the march was announced, three times with chiefs in hand we stood by the tame and mangled head of the horse, three times we did not move. Meanwhile the wagons arrived and left, and with them the sun. The last order kept us awake almost all night before the dawn sounded: "get on the horse!". - So not into the wagons after all.

Was the enemy already so close? Fate had it that I had a three-minute stop in Novi Vileyka. The regiment stayed for the time being, my platoon moved up the driveway. As we passed through Vilnius, it was still sleeping a short summer's sleep, nervous and anxious about its own fate, although probably, like us soldiers, it was unaware of the extraordinary speed of the advancing enemy. Meanwhile, the "front" was approaching us alone with the thousand horse hooves of Gaj-Han's cavalry. Already his cavalries were approaching the town. Our drive threw out the "spearhead" and flanking insurances.

Quietly the horses stepped on the forest sand. All around them stood the dense small pine trees, such as hundreds of them spread over the sandy land of Vilnius. The forest was silent. The road led deeper and deeper into the forest. Suddenly... by the expression in his eyes, by the contraction of the muscles on the face of the NCO riding ahead - we guessed that something important had happened. He silently turned his horse around, held the barrel of the "nagana" upwards and whispered only: "cossacks on small horses!" Barely an audible crunch of branches in front.Unusual: they were walking in a tyralier through a dense forest in horse formation. A second of decision: it was no use escaping on tired horses, with no support at the rear; they would catch up and chop them down.

So turn back calmly and keel over. At the first turn: a career! Meanwhile, at the first bend, our infantry emerges unexpectedly. Where it came from was not up to us. It was ours to rejoice, report to the officer in charge and, I don't know why, to get into a fight brawl together. The infantry fanned out into the woods, unfolded the line of march, rattled the locks of their rifles and threw the first shots into the silence of the forest.

The Bolsheviks stood still for one small moment. We leapt forward. One of our Tartars on a white mare with a bare sabre jumped a Cossack, they flew into the forest and suddenly they both sank to their horses' bellies in the mud, hopelessly brandishing their bright clanks. - "From the horses!" From behind the trees it was convenient to aim and shoot. The Cossacks, to our amazement, pushed forward in horse formation through the dense forest like barbed wire.

Amazing courage! They were answered by the bullets of our infantry, all the rifles of the line of fire banged. One, two... four, seven - the first hand grenades flew straight into the heads of the Cossack horses! After all, it's nonsense to charge in the forest. A Cossack came charging at our corporal who was standing next to me, swung his sabre, "brasaj rużjo, you"... and he fell down three steps, like a piece of wood, with his skull shot through. The lancer jumped up and grabbed his horse by the bridle. The faithful Cossack mount persisted with its rump and refused to move from the corpse. The whistle of bullets tripled, as it were, in the noise of breaking branches.

The Cossacks jumped as quickly as they jumped, so they also turned back, shooting from their horses. There was nothing left to stand behind the tree, because the artillery from hell began to pound the forest after its own and the enemies'. On 14 July 1920, Vilnius made an impression as if it had slept for an exceptionally long time. Shops were closed, shutters boarded up. On the cobblestones, some eager youngsters were wandering about. We went back through Zarzecze again. The infantry was no longer behind us. We did not meet any soldiers. The posters were still hanging. It was 10 o'clock in the morning. Some passer-by warned us that the Bolsheviks had already taken Antokol.

Pryncypala Mickiewicza Street lay deserted and gave the impression of a deserted courtyard of a bankrupt factory. A great retreat and great disorder hung in the air. In the vicinity of the station and the goods station, the various depots and sidings, Ponary Street and New Buildings - the terrible picture of the Great Retreat presented itself to the eyes in all its horror. The civilian refugees and the army were retreating to Ponary and Landvar Streets. The army was no longer there, but only what it had left behind: broken wheels, overturned cartwheels, unshackled wagons of wagons, the humps of an empty horse-drawn carriage standing in the road, the tyres of cars....

Flour and sugar were pulled out of railway depots. Someone had stuffed several bottles of paraffin into a wheelbarrow and now his neighbours were telling him to share - a fight ensued. It was bad, and it seemed that it could not get any worse... It so happened that a few months later, in October 1920, I was again in Vilnius, occupied by the Lithuanian army. The city looked as if it was recovering from a serious illness. It was lined with empty streets, barely moving on the roadways and pavements. The Lithuanian army was scarce. Once I passed as a platoon of hussars with caps in hand, with Russian "sha shkas" and in German uniforms passed at the Gates of Dawn.

Outside, officers were loitering one by one, white and yellow caps flanking them. Militia in green armbands. The confectionery "Birute - Svitezianka - Rudnicki", changing state orientation for the third time, played a quartet from ear to ear. Banditry in the province was increasing, security was decreasing. With complete material exhaustion, moral weariness, handra and vileness: "Let them duck" was priming the capital of the Lithuanian Republic, which was to shine with the former rays of the Grand Ducal Lithuanian Crown. It did not go.

It was ploughing in the reluctant and inefficient soil of Vilnius, backward languorous and confused to a ragged shirt. Byle Jaszuny, Michaliszki, Trakai or Mejszagoła was a different orientation, different currents, different moods. The Lithuanian authorities made numerous arrests in the provinces. A lot of sheepskins and peasants' siermugas were seen in the various stations and commissariats. On the benches sat people constantly suspected of serving in the Polish army, then of harbouring fugitive soldiers. Everyone was trying to wriggle out of a certain bullet in the head, evade it or prove their innocence.

On the other hand, the behaviour of Lithuanian troops in the villages was more than correct. The Lithuanian army, fighting with great difficulty for internal discipline, introduced a propaganda moment, very important in our politically disoriented lands, not exploited by any army since 1914. Robberies were rare, cheese or bread were paid for, efforts were made to bring the correctness of behaviour to an ideal. It was a slogan calculated to inspire the belief: "at last our own"! In practice, this did not work, and anyway there was no time. At that time, the Polish army, having crossed the Niemen through Druskininkai, was heading for Lida.

One must admit to the Lithuanian army that it fought with great difficulty within its own ranks. For a war of this kind, like the one with Poland, was lively and popular for some, while for others it was simply hard and impossible to understand: who is one's own, who is the enemy! What is there to say, brother met brother at the front. The same attitude was to Polish prisoners of war: very hostile or even fraternal. The present Garrison Casino at 13 Mickiewicza Street housed the "Commandant's Office". The city, as it was said, was deserted. Premises for offices and ministries were in abundance, as were luxurious flats for officials. General relocation from Kaunas to Vilnius had already taken place. The blow was all the greater on 8 October, when General Żeligowski's troops advanced on Vilnius.

Evacuation. Within twelve hours, the city, the objects of the day, the hopes of the future, had to be evacuated. Naturally, chaos reigned supreme, and the railway station was crowded beyond description. There was no room in the carriages. The families of the officials remained in Vilnius. By the evening, everything had quietened down, the city slept the peaceful, quiet sleep of an impression-starved people. But from the very morning, changes were feverishly expected. The first bullet rattled and immediately fell silent. Where? Apparently on a Lida road somewhere. Apart from that, silence reigned. The seizure of Vilnius had taken place in a completely different way to the changes that had been taking place since 1915.

There were no great marches of troops, no hustle and bustle, no looting, no bang of bridges being blown up, no cannon shots. I was startled by a burst of rifle shots coming from the direction of the railway station. I ran in that direction. Several Lithuanian soldiers were firing as they ran across the railway track. One of them was walking in a nice new uniform, unarmed, with a frightened face. He gave his rifle to some girl who was leading him. He didn't know what to do with himself. A crowd of appendages flew by on Great Street.

Three of them held their rifles high above their heads. Screaming, they ran towards Zamkowa Street, from where the gunshots were coming. The crowd slowly began to gather and hatch out of the houses. Suddenly, a car flashed by with a French kepi and an English cap. Everything was pushing towards Cathedral Square. The first lancers. Caps were waved, here and there cried out: "Long live!" A Lithuanian soldier lay alone in Cielętnik.

Lying near the former Pushkin monument, he lay dead. Shrunken, with his face on his bent arm, his other hand far away discarded. Someone had covered his skull with a cap with a yellow band, probably pierced by a bullet. A continuous ovation came from Mickiewicza Street. They moved rapidly towards the Green Bridge. At the entrance to the bridge lay the second corpse of a Lithuanian soldier. From the side of St. Raphael's Church, from Wiłkomierska Street, a machine-gun sounded horribly. The target was taking the upper hand. Bullets were hitting the walls of houses, ringing in the ties of the bridge. In a moment the retching stopped. The last cannon on the recaptured rampart.