Holding Mortality's Strong Hand

The extraordinary life of George Volsky.

George Volsky, who passed away last week at the age of 102, did not so much defy description as exhaust it.

He was, among many things, an autodidact, a polymath, a polyglot, a soldier, a prisoner of war, a political operative, a journalist, and a gifted writer. He was a loyal husband, a devoted father, and a proud grandfather. He was a fierce opponent of the bad and a brave defender of the good. He was, we are all privileged to say, a resident of Coral Gables.

His life’s story is one I have neither the ability nor the moral license to tell. Beyond what I believe to be well known (that he was nearly killed by Nazis and held prisoner by Soviets, trekked across the Middle East and evaded German U-boats in the Atlantic, helped capture Normandy and liberate Europe, admonished a young Fidel Castro and lived to tell about it, and, among other such matters of fact, wrote for the New York Times), the more intimate details of his life weave into a gripping and touching narrative, a beautiful tapestry of adversity and adventure, of great sacrifice and profound love. But he would describe it much differently and far better, I’m sure, which is why his story is one that only he could tell.

Moreover, I was not close to Volsky. We got along well throughout our few encounters. We were friendly but never friends—different worlds, is all. Consequently, apart from what I could harvest from the couple of casual conversations we enjoyed (I enjoyed, at least) over a cup of coffee at Burger Bob’s, my impression of Volsky and his incredible life is largely derivative, built almost entirely from exchanges I have had with his real friends, and, naturally, his exquisite writing. I make this self-referential disclaimer only because there is something so utterly loathsome about creating a false impression of intimacy where it did not exist, particularly when it involves the recently departed. I wish to steer well clear of that.

He was a private man, albeit more reserved than secretive. The inward gaze is essential to the life of the mind, after all, and thus Volsky existed, as he once put it, “largely within himself.” This is not surprising when you consider how diligently the fates conspired to drive him deeply and permanently inward, the prolonged isolation and captivity he was made to endure as a prisoner of war only hastening his retreat into the already cavernous mind with which he was born.

It is why, I think, apart from what he shared with family and close friends, so much of what made him compelling had to be gleaned. With Volsky, a mere acquaintance had to observe, discern, and extract. His past was no plaything and he seemed to want you to know that. In retrospect, it is only appropriate that the most talented writer ever to have lived in Coral Gables had to be read to be understood. And, as always, a good close read reveals the most splendid details.

Like how he possessed that trademark composure of the aptly named Greatest Generation, that beautiful mix of solemnity and optimism that is no doubt the result of having suffered and overcome unspeakable tragedy, of having been cornered by evil and forced to confront it, of having lived for a time within the clenched fist of history. He was, one could see, a man shaped by the forces that shaped mankind.

Or how his uncanny ability to intellectualize the visceral, to filter the light of the soul through the lens of the mind, only purified the deep well of humanity that lay within. That his tendency to describe a romance as a friendship or to speak of trust where others would speak of love revealed not a lack of certain emotions, but rather a more profound and mature understanding of them.

The title of this post alludes to a Shakespearean axiom administered by way of King John: “We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand.” It means, quite simply, that one cannot live forever—a fitting tribute to Volsky, who not only adored Shakespeare, but almost proved him wrong.

Which brings to mind one more gem from the Swan of Avon: “Thou know'st 'tis common; all that live must die, passing through nature to eternity.”

Yes, Volsky’s longevity was impressive, but even more extraordinary was how he was able to accomplish more in his first 25 years than most of us could manage with the full 102, how he converted life’s pains into sublime moral clarity, and how the bright light of his exceptional mind shone brightly well into the twilight of his life.

George Volsky passed through nature and revealed its higher potential, and in so doing, earned his rightful place in eternity.