THE phone call from the Ministry of Defence came the week that Tomas*, a 45-year-old Lithuanian chauffeur, had been planning to go to Belarus to show his daughters where he performed his military service. Tomas is one of more than 1,500 Lithuanians who walked away from their mandatory stints in the Soviet Army in 1990 and 1991, as the USSR was collapsing. Others (like the young protestors pictured above in February 1990) simply refused to report. The ministry warned Tomas not to travel to Russia or to other countries outside the EU or NATO. Russia, according to Lithuania’s Prosecutor General, had asked for help in investigating another “deserter” over the summer—one of a series of such requests, officials say. The request was denied, but Lithuanian officials worry that other countries may be more cooperative, and they are advising potential targets to stay home.

On January 13th, Lithuania marks the anniversary of a bloody 1991 confrontation at Vilnius's television tower between independence demonstrators and Soviet troops, an iconic event in the country's history. It comes as tensions with Moscow have reached historic highs; Dalia Grybauskaitė, the Lithuanian president, recently called Russia a “terrorist state”. Russia's threats to prosecute Soviet-era desertions are among the odder skirmishes in Moscow's diplomatic war with the Baltic states it once ruled.

Lithuania dates its escape from foreign rule to March 11th, 1990, when it declared its independence from the Soviet Union. The following day, the new authorities in Vilnius absolved Lithuanians from serving in the Soviet army. Two days after that, 20-year-old Tomas—whose mother had been deported to Siberia as a child, and who was brought up to view Moscow as an occupier—escaped from his unit in Belarus, shed his Soviet uniform, and went into hiding. “It was such joy: the feeling that we will be Lithuania, not the USSR,” he says in Russian.

Some of the Lithuanians who fled their units sought refuge in a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Vilnius, watched over by a Red Cross flag and foreign correspondents. But Soviet paratroopers broke into the building early on March 27th, leaving a trail of blood behind them. Mantas*, now a Vilnius taxi driver, says he was one of a dozen who fled "like rabbits" into the night just as the Russian army trucks were closing in. Those who stayed were brutally beaten; some were sent to Magadan, in Russia’s Far East.

25 years on, Lithuanians wonder why Russia would try to reopen a case involving a country that no longer exists. Juozas Olekas, Lithuania’s defence minister, calls it a “provocation”. It is “not so much against these men as against Lithuanian society,” says Artūras Paulauskas, chairman of the parliament’s national security and defence committee. Using the same logic, Russia could accuse all Lithuanians of disobeying Soviet legislation in 1990, he adds.

Nobody in Vilnius doubts that the timing is linked to the international situation. Lithuania has been one of Ukraine’s staunchest supporters, from the symbolic woollen mittens its ambassador handed out to protesters in Kiev last winter, to the announcement in November that it would provide Ukraine's army with military aid. (Mr Olekas declined to say whether this will include weapons, though he did mention protective clothing and ammunition.) Vilnius has since accused Russia of blocking its vehicles at the border, on top of its ban on food imports from the EU.

As Russian troops have moved into Crimea and the Donbas, some have wondered whether Lithuania might ultimately be threatened as well. In the early 1990s, before joining NATO and the EU, the country's geopolitical position was similar to Ukraine's or Moldova's, Mr Olekas says, but it is “in a different situation now”. Lithuania is raising defence spending to 1.1% of GDP in 2015, and aims to reach NATO's recommended 2% target in 2020.

Still, harsh words like Ms Grybauskaitė’s could do more harm than good. Lithuanian politicians, the army, and some in the media are creating an atmosphere resembling a “besieged castle with the enemy at the gates”, says Vytautas Bruveris, a political journalist at Lietuvos rytas, a daily. Politicians on both right and left are responding to voters' desire to feel that Lithuania is an important player in a global struggle against Moscow.

Meanwhile, Lithuania’s deserters are keeping a low profile. The defence ministry is encouraging them to register confidentially using an online form. A list with 1,562 names was compiled several years ago, though, as the ministry official in charge notes drily, its initial purpose was different: it was intended for a 2012 law on compensation for them. She does not rule out the existence of a similar list in Moscow.

Heeding the official warning, Tomas cancelled his plans to visit a friend in Moscow for New Year’s Eve. “Real KGB officers remember everything for a very long time,” he says. With the temperature between Vilnius and Moscow hovering below zero, he could be in for a long wait.

* Tomas and Mantas are pseudonyms. Both men agreed to be interviewed on condition their real names not be used.