The Lost Tale of a Vasilija Vukotic

In 1998, I was attending the first Women’s International Networking Conference in Milan. A wet-behind-the-ears journalism graduate from Columbia University and male, I suspected my Pittsburgh-based editors were having a bit of fun at my expense. On my way home, a little vacation time banked, I stopped at Hotel Fortaleza do Guincho, a resort on the Estoril Coast in Portugal. Sipping my vodka gimlet on the terrace, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, my only companion that late fall afternoon was a woman of that certain age where propriety and nobility is her all-encompassing demeanor. She seemed to me a very well-kept late eighties or early nineties. She was sipping an alvarinho. I asked the waiter if he knew her and his response, “She is here every day. She is a crazy old lady who thinks she is the Queen of Bulgaria or something.” My knowledge of history is not everything it should be, but, what the hell, I am American. Generally, I remember that after World War II, the Soviet Union put a nail in the coffin of the remaining monarchies in Eastern Europe. Forgetting that I was on vacation, I dug into my online data services (pre-Google) and tracked down the facts of Bulgarian royalty. The last Tsaritsa of Bulgaria was born in 1907 and would be 90-something. In exile, she had fled to Alexandria, Egypt to be near her father, who, similarly, was in exile from his kingship of Italy. Later, Franco had given her sanctuary in Spain. Eventually, she had settled on, of all places, Estoril, Portugal. I am no statistician but if a 90-year-old woman in Estoril purports to be the exiled Tsaritsa of Bulgaria and she is spending every day at its most expensive resort, I am willing to place a bet. The next afternoon, I am there, she is there. “Princess Giovanna, what an unexpected surprise!” Her response to her Italian title would be telling. “Young man, no one has called me that in almost 70 years. I would have liked to know you when I was that young girl.” Even now, she was able to affect a coquettish expression. Feeling more convinced, “My apologies, Tsaritsa Ioanna. It is not every day a boy from Pittsburgh, America meets anyone so interesting.” “Interesting?”, was her sole response. Her English was impeccable, which for a woman who spoke, by necessity, Italian, French, Montenegrin, Bulgarian, Spanish, and Portuguese is extraordinary. My response, “Yes, intriguing”. She talking with me intently listening, we spend the next two hours reliving her last fifty years. A lull, I shared my assignment in Milan. Her response was unexpected. “You young people think that you invented everything. Let me share a story my mother told me, frequently, of a woman, my cousin, stepping up in a way that few men can imagine.”

This is her tale, and dear readers I share it with you.

Evening April 12, 1912 – Thirty hours since Queenstown, Ireland

Sofia stares at the nine-centimeter blade. The tarnish of the Damascus steel is now crimson. She thinks back to the brown bear her father killed in the mountains of the northern reaches of her kingdom. The bear’s blood looked no different than the trickle running from the pervert’s neck to the boards on the poop deck. Twenty minutes before, she had escaped the confines of crowded, putrid third-class steerage to take in the freshness of cold night air. The swarthy lump of flesh, now lifeless, had crept up behind her, groped her, forcefully pulling her back towards him. Sofia has lived enough life in her fifteen years to thwart the unwanted advances of the boys in the camps. She had an unblemished record of successful parry to their awkward thrust. This man was older and stronger. Even behind her, his breath on her neck stank of cheap tobacco. She would have suffered the humiliation of his advances. Sofia’s father had taught her all the skills of hand-to-hand combat. She would have prevailed without resorting to the knife had he not whispered that word into her ear. Had he not sneered, “Surtuk”, he would be alive today. As she stares down at the corpse, rendered harmless, her mind journeys back to the camps and the soldiers. As a young girl, while lying awake in her father’s makeshift hut, the teenage boys, sitting around the fire, uniform-clad, murmured “Surtuk”. The word was always accompanied by a graphic description of what would happen to the wives and daughters of the enemy. Sofia was eleven years old when she summoned the courage to ask her father what this word, so foreign sounding, meant. “It is an Ottoman Turkish word that you, as a lady, should never say. Frankly, it is a word, no gentleman should use, either. Irrespective, the illiterate young boys who come from the farms and villages to courageously fight for our country’s independence are barely men, much less gentlemen. They are away from home, scared, and compensate with bravado. They mean no real harm and are bonding with other boys whose lives they might save one day or who might save theirs. A “Surtuk” is a woman of loose morals, who would give her body to any man for money or the mere pleasure of it. In French, we would call her a salope, a slut.” While not her native tongue, French is the language her family speaks at home. It is so much more melodious than the words of the local farm boys and servant girls. “Everything sounds more romantic in French, even salope.”, she mused. Four years later she finds herself on Titanic’s deck accosted by a smelly lout. His insolent “Surtuk” throws her into a rage. The word, the ultimate insult, but even worse it means this leathery cretin is the enemy, an infidel, a Turk. To him, she is a thing to be used and discarded like a piece of garbage. He might interpret the reach into her bodice as a defensive move putting her hands between his and his target. Would he mistake the knife’s handle of antler as the whalebone stays of her corset? Retrieved from its hiding place, thus its Gaelic moniker, sgein dubh, the blade finds it mark, and she buries it full-length into his neck. She feels a bit of satisfaction from her added twist. She spins around in time to see the surprise and bewilderment in his eyes, as he falls away from her.

What to do with the body? He had waited until she was near one of the lifeboats to attack. Perhaps, he would have used its tarp, oiled and new, tightly tied from prow to stern, as a hammock to finish his deed. His plan fit neatly with hers. After loosening the sheets on the tarp, adrenaline-fueled, she executes her best “dead-man-carry” exercise mastered at camp. She lifts and tosses the carcass over the side of the craft. She imagines that the smell of the decomposing body might be masked by the air, fetid with 2,200 passengers, half of them in steerage, like her, sharing one bathtub. She hopes that once the initial decay abates, only a skeleton will be discovered many years hence at the bottom of the unused, forgotten lifeboat. Judging from the number of “Syrians” she has encountered in third-class; he won’t be missed.

1897

Sofia’s father, Janko, is awaiting the birth of his first child. His wife’s conception has been a challenging affair. He watched his comrades welcome child after child in what seemed an annual event. Between his wife’s medical issues and his extended tours of duty, he thought this day might never come. Janko hopes for a son. He is a progressive man. His gender preference is driven more by his career than any fundamental desire for a boy versus a girl. As a military man, a profession solely populated by men, he wants a son to continue his legacy. If he were a banker, a baker, or a farmer, he would gladly nurture and mentor a daughter to take over the reins. Soldiering is a very different matter. When the pronouncement of the midwife of a girl-child, he takes it in stride, but with disappointment. Who knows when the couple would conceive again?

1902

Sofia turns five and Janko resolves himself to the truth that she will be his only child. The couple considers her a miracle, a true gift from God. Sofia is already a beauty. She is taller than most her age, athletic, and neither skinny nor chubby. Janko is heading north to take command of an army training camp. He has Sofia in tow. It is the 20th century. He perceives a change in attitude. In the West, where he attended military academy, more opportunities and rights are being won by women. Such advances are slower to come to his country, but progress creeps ever east. Perhaps, one day, Sofia could be a serdar.

Summer 1911

A precocious and confident child, Sofia stubbornly persists, and with age, increasingly succeeds at matching the young men in exercises and combat skills. She matured from pet to mascot and eventually peer. Always tall, she towers over more than a few of the soldiers. With puberty, her black hair becomes blacker, and her eyes deep dark pools that either seduce or terrorize (or both?). Janko notices she is receiving increased attention. It is only his position as commander, respect for her and her self-defense skills standing between Sofia and the advances of unwanted suitors. It is a happy coincidence for a young woman of marrying age with no desire for betrothal that she is called to court in Cetinje.

Milena, Queen Consort of King Nicholas I and cousin of Janko, has summoned Sofia to the palace. It is Sofia’s fourteenth birthday. The honors are exhilarating and humbling. None of her female peers have been afforded this opportunity. She wonders if “being family” is the reason behind her exceptional treatment. As father and daughter progress from Cevo to the capital, Cetinje, he offers few words and no explanation. He is pensive, appearing to her both proud and worried at the same time.

After settling into her comfortable quarters, Sofia is almost immediately summoned to the throne room. She anticipates a quick “meet and greet” with Queen Milena. Instead, she is welcomed by both King and Queen. King Nicholas, a man impatient with ceremony and precise about statecraft, moves quickly from banalities to the business at hand. He pulls out a prepared, official statement and begins to read:

Vasilija Vukotic, daughter of our servant, Serdar Janko Vukotic, cousins of our beloved Queen, we are entrusting you with a mission of the utmost importance and confidence. You have witnessed our preparations these past nine years and shortly, we will fulfill our destiny of ridding Montenegro, Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece the menace of the Ottoman Empire. With the Sultan’s defeat, our people will truly achieve their independence, peace, and prosperity.

Critical to our victory is the assistance of the nations of Christendom as this is a holy war to drive the infidels from Montenegro, forever. Further, we must call upon all Montenegrins, worldwide, to provide moral and financial support to our troops and efforts. Finally, where assistance is not forthcoming, we must achieve, at the very least, a sympathetic populace who will advocate neutrality.

To that end, we require you to travel first to Rome, then on to London, New York, Chicago, and finally Juneau. For Rome and London, we will provide to you diplomatic pouches for delivery to the heads of state. In the United States, we implore you to provoke support amongst the emigrees. Remind them of the sufferings of loved ones back home. Much as the Fenians have done for Ireland, collect financial pledges to take back our country and expel the invaders.

Nicholas hands the statement off to a minister and gives Vasilija the least of a smile, which is still more than most have ever seen. Milena takes the girl’s cheeks in her palms, “We are assigning you a great responsibility. It may feel a daunting weight. You will soon come to embrace the excitement of the adventure and the pride of doing something so consequential for your country and its future. Until you land in New York City, you, our Vasilija, will be an orphaned peasant girl, Sofia Popovic. Sofia’s "aunt and uncle", your only family, live in the United States and are paying your passage to join them in the land of opportunity. I chose your name because St. Sofia and her martyred daughters embodies all this mission represents; Faith in our God and our country, Hope for a brighter future, and finally, our Love for you and all the children of Montenegro. I selected Popovic as your surname because you cannot throw a stone in Montenegro without hitting a Popovic in the head.” The folds on Milena’s throat jiggled with her chuckle. When you land in New York, safely, you can reveal your identity. Vukotic is a name respected and honored by all Montenegrins worldwide. Vukotic will command their attention. Until then, attention is your foe. The poor, orphaned, young Sofia Popovic should be invisible. Wear that cloak closely.”

Late evening April 12, 1912

Back in her cot in steerage, Sofia does not feel invisible. She feels like everyone is glaring at her, judging her. Every man is a potential foe, especially if they remind her of the ones back home. Sofia has made friends with four girls, now her roommates. In Cherbourg, two Breton sisters boarded. Unlike, Sofia, when they disembark in New York City, they will be in their new home. Each is betrothed to one of twin brothers also from Brittany and working the cargo ships on the docks in Brooklyn. A couple of teenage girls from County Cork boarded the tender, PS Ireland, at the Queenstown docks. It carried them out to Roche’s Point where the Titanic had dropped anchor earlier that day. With their few belongings, they found their way, following more than a hundred of their countrymen, to third-class and the berths on the other side of Sofia. The five girls became fast friends. As coincidence would have it, each speaks French as their second language. Unlikely any Parisian would be able to make sense of the conversation, but no Parisian is present to judge. The girls do fine, each with her unique pronunciation and accent. Sofia does not share the details of her “Turkish adventure”. She vows to be more careful and only wander with her new tribe.

Autumn, 1911

Sofia thought to herself, “Nothing is as beautiful as Rome in autumn, especially the royal palace of Villa Savoia.” As she walks its paths lined with cypress, dwarf palms, and metasequoia, she imagines what it might be like to be her cousin Elena. The palace where the Princess Elena grew up in Cetinje is opulent by Montenegro’s standards, but this 450-acre estate is truly fit for a queen. If God crafted queens, he could do no better than Elena. She is beyond regal and above reproach. At six feet, she is a head taller than the diminutive Vittorio Emmanuele, her husband. Sofia only occasionally meets a woman taller than herself. There is a striking resemblance between the girl and the queen, shared genes. This should be the smoothest of Sofia’s visits. Elena is family and the Italian royals her kingdom’s allies, at least in spirit. After reviewing the materials in the pouch Sofia carefully guarded, King Vittorio has made a commitment of military personnel should war break out. Elena has agreed to fund Sofia’s venture until she reaches London. Elena has written a letter of introduction to another, more elderly, cousin, a London exporter known to actively support the cause of Montenegrin independence.

The Tsaritsa took a pause. “I was only four and I was playing outside with my older sisters. It is the only time I ever saw Vasilija. She seemed so much older to me. She is one of my few early memories. That is the impression she made.”

Christmas, 1911

Grace and Pieter Vukotic are hosting their annual open house at the mansion they purchased in Belgravia from a cash-strapped earl. It is a scene they will repeat again in twelve days, giving equal time to Grace’s Scottish traditions and Pieter’s Orthodox. One guest, with aquiline nose, Lord Heatherbrook, spots a tall, apparently poor, but exotic teenage girl to the side, clearly out of place. She is not serving nor is she conversing. He hypothesizes that she might be one of Pieter’s relatives as neither would be mistaken for English. He continues his mingling with those of like-class but steals a glance from time to time. She barely moves from her post. There is something peculiar about her. She carries herself with a certain confidence unusual in English peasant girls. Nevertheless, there is no mistaking the homespun hanging off her. Heatherbrook’s singular greatest gift is his bigotry. He discriminates equally against all things un-English. This makes him suspicious and paranoid, which in his line of work are useful traits. Men like Pieter annoy Heatherbrook, immensely. Pieter showed up with his Scottish bride, set up shop, and one day he is buying the homes of earls. Heatherbrook hears that he is the cousin of some newly minted queen in a backwater Balkan nation. He finds it particularly disrespectful that people, noting Milena’s dozen offspring betrothed to royalty across Europe, dare compare her to that greatest of English queens, the Empress Victoria. Heatherbrook wants to know the who and why of this peasant girl. He would normally bed her and all mysteries would be revealed, but he senses that tactic would be unsuccessful. That bothers him, as well. Girls of a lower class rarely rebuff a lord, but he is certain she would.

Boxing Day, 1911

While Grace and Pieter are delivering the Christmas boxes to their servants who worked so hard to make yesterday’s open house a success, Sofia is packing for her trip to Winchester. Sofia has delivered the diplomatic pouch to Pieter, who had, in turn, delivered the papers to the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill. Now, Sofia is going to lay low for the next few months with friends of Grace. London has too many prying eyes and loose tongues. Told that Sofia is an orphan on her way to family in the New World, Grace’s compeers will think nothing otherwise. She would be one more of the thousands just like her, although most don’t get passage on White Star Lines’ Queen of the Ocean, its newest, most luxurious, and largest ocean liner. When Grace returns, she hands Sofia a purse with a one hundred pounds and a small dagger. It has a beautifully carved stag antler handle and a short, but deadly sharp blade.

“This was my father’s sgein dubh. When I was your age, too long ago,” She stifles a laugh. “I was touring Rome and we took a side trip to Naples. While there, I was kidnapped by what I learned later was the ‘last gasp’ of the Barbary pirates. The pirate’s ship was crossing the Mediterranean, headed to North Africa. Suddenly, we could see a man-of-war bearing down from the east. It was a Greek ship and Pieter was one of its officers. He rescued me, and I returned the favor by rescuing him from a sailor’s life. Had I my father’s sgein dubh, I would never have met Pieter. I would have taken as many of those pirates to the depths of Poseidon until they were all dead or I was. Women on ships are easy prey. Use it if you must, without hesitation.”

January 1912

Lord Heatherbrook boards his carriage and directs the driver to the home of a school chum from Eton who works in the Foreign Office. Settled into the library, scotch in hand, Lord Heatherbrook, nonchalantly asks, “What do you make of this Pieter Vukotic? I hear he is active in supporting the Baltic League.” His friend takes the bait, “Popular cause with the British people, Balkan independence. The rabble really does not understand what is at stake. Churchill was over a couple of days ago meeting with Grey and probably best we sit this skirmish out. Seems your Vukotic fellow brought some papers from the king of Montenegro. Not sure exactly the contents, but Grey was left with the impression that little was to be gained siding with the Turks. The Ottomans are like a bad marriage. They are not exactly our lover, but as they say, the ‘enemy of our enemy’”. Heatherbrook takes in the reference to Russia, changes the subject to Eton football. He got exactly what he came for.

Early evening April 13, 1912 – 51 hours since Queenstown, Ireland

The seas are calm and the air crisp. The decks are teeming with humanity representing every social class and most nationalities. The conversations are a cacophonous Tower of Babel, and even outside, tobacco smoke of a dozen varieties linger, the air breezeless. Sofia, wisely, strolls with the Breton sisters. Even with safety in numbers, she is alert to faces in the crowd. In particular, she has focused on a pair of olive-skinned men who seem joined at the hip and always in sight. “Or am I in their sights?”, Sofia ponders. She turns to listen to the sisters, and when she turns back, one of the men has disappeared and the other is staring through her. In a repeat performance of the previous evening, she hears a low voice whisper in her ear and the point of a blade in the small of her back. “Balkan fahişesi” echoes from his mouth placed next to her ear. Sofia is calmer this evening, more certain of the outcome. In fairness to the Turk, she thinks, “I probably do resemble the hundreds of non-Muslim orphaned girls who follow the empire’s troops exchanging favors for food and a night’s shelter.” Nevertheless, she tires of both the insults and their lack of imagination. She reaches into her bodice but is startled by a grunt and groan. Sofia whirls around in time to see the man, like yesterday’s, fall to the deck in a pool of blood. She spots a man scurrying away, sporting a dolman, traditional Ottoman garb, accompanied by a woman in a burqa. Sofia is certain she catches the flash of a stiletto disappearing into the woman’s black garment. Instinctively, she spins back, ready for the other Turk to strike, but he, too, is retreating through the crowd. Not certain what to make of the events, she remembers that she is an invisible peasant girl and slowly walks away leading the Bretons from the corpse. She does spot one more familiar man. He has been watching the whole spectacle. She imagines the slightest of a smile on his smug face. It is the visage of the man who had been measuring her up at the Belgravia Christmas open house. She does not know his name, but it is the same man.

Late night April 14, 1912 – 81 hours since Queenstown, Ireland

Sofia is lying in her bed the sgein dubh clutched tightly to her chest in anticipation of a visit from the third Turk. She is trying to make sense of what she has experienced. Dismissed is the idea that the attacks were sexual. There are plenty of easier candidates to target. To look at her, a predator would know she could put up a fight, regardless he aware of her military training. There is also the matter of the insults. What possible purpose did they serve unless she understands the meaning? Sofia hypothesizes that the first Turk was a scout to make sure she is who they believe she is. The second Turk and his compatriot were the assassins. As she lay there, turning over facts, she hears a rustle and a thud. She readies herself and her trusty weapon. Before she can make any move, Lord Heatherbrook, finger to his lips, motions her over. Unlikely he found his first-class accommodations unsatisfactory and made his way down to hers as an alternative. In a low whisper, he starts with an apology. “I am afraid this drama is the result of my deceits. I did not intend for the sultan to send thugs, but clearly, you are a bigger threat than I imagined. My only interest in any of this is as a betting man. My bet is that your ragtag army of ill-equipped and poorly trained farmers is no match for the Ottoman Empire. For me, this is mere horse race. My only interest is England and the money I can make selling intelligence to the winner. I informed the sultan of your king’s treachery for which I was generously compensated. But I sense I have placed a fool’s bet. The events of the last few days have demonstrated the incompetence of the Turks and the passion of the sultan’s adversaries. If a teenage girl can defeat his paid assassins, your armies are better trained than I imagined. What I had not expected is Balkan passions extending to the sultan’s Muslim subjects. I do sincerely apologize. As reparation, I dispatched the third Turk to Hades.” Heatherbrook has barely finished speaking when they hear a crash. Heatherbrook is thrown off balance. Younger and more catlike, Sofia catches herself. What follows is metallic screeching echoing through steerage. Heatherbrook, now back on his feet, with a bit of blood on his forehead, has the presence of mind to grab Sofia’s hand and lead her to the stairway. The Breton sisters, knocked to the floor, are dazed. Sofia pulls up one who does the same for her sister and the quartet, with Heatherbrook, the leader, makes its way to the deck. All is chaos and one of the crew tries to impede their progress only to be dismissed by Heatherbrook the way lords are taught to do from birth. Weaving through the confused masses, he jockeys the three girls to the front of the line. Only then does Sofia look around frantically for some sign of her County Cork friends. But there are none. Heatherbrook ushers the girls into a lifeboat. One of the sisters stumbles and Sofia steadies her. When she shifts her eyes back to the ship, Heatherbrook is gone.

Evening April 18, 1912

RMS Carpathia cruises into New York harbor in a deluge. The rain does not deter the twin Breton brothers who have heard via the USS Chester that their fiancées are among the survivors. Sofia disembarks with the two girls. The three clear immigration and customs, then, in unladylike fashion, the girls run to their beaus. Sofia, who rarely cries, felt a tear of joy on her cheek.

Sofia made her way to “aunt and uncle” in Queens. Turns out the couple runs the Balkan Relief Society chapter for the five boroughs. Relief in this context includes not only food and medical supplies but also bullets and artillery. As instructed, she introduces herself to them as Vasilija Vukotic, daughter of the general of the Montenegro armed forces. The couple have already arranged for her to speak at a special meeting of the society. Public speaking is not her forte, but she used the three days on Carpathia to put together her thoughts. She emerged on the New York docks a very different woman than the girl who embarked from Southampton eight days earlier. Gone is her arrogance born from membership in the aristocracy. She has a new appreciation for the true meaning of freedom. Her love of country is stronger than ever, but that emotion has taken on new import. She loves its people, their resilience, their tenacity. She is less enamored with monarchy and its special honors. Playing a peasant, she has come to respect the hardships, challenges, and joys of those who toil day in and out with dignity. A soldier, she understands the importance of meritocracy. The best, not the best connected, should always be promoted. Most significant, a lifetime learning to hate the empire had also spawned a bigoted hate for it religion and its practitioners. Now she knows the truth that autocrats oppress all, equally. Whether a Roman Catholic like Elena or Orthodox like her family or Muslim like the couple who risked their lives to save hers, God loves all, and she should follow that example. All these thoughts and ideas are the ones she shared with the Society’s audience to thunderous applause.

Before Vasilija can board the train to Chicago to continue her rallies, she receives a telegram from her father. A coded message, it says to come home. Montenegro will attack in the autumn. She boards the next steamer, this time avoiding icebergs by heading to Gibraltar and on to Rome. A quick visit to brief Queen Elena and then a ferry across the Adriatic. Serdar Janko is at Bar to greet his daughter. He greets her with a hug and then a salute. “Welcome home, Corporal Vukotic.” And thus promoted, she embarks on a celebrated military career that includes serving in three wars.

Back at my desk in Pittsburgh, I researched Vasilija Vukotic. She was admired as a hero of Montenegro and lived to a ripe old age. I also researched Sofia Popovic, found many but no record of one on the Titanic, survivor or otherwise. Vasilija might have travelled under yet another pseudonym as there were several Balkan females on board. Like Sofia, Lord Heatherbrook seems a figment of the Tsaritsa’s imagination. The Tsaritsa sent me two Christmas cards before passing away in 2000. My research confirmed many details of the story. Yet, I suspect it is those details that make this tale a good fable.