I Lived and Died, Then

Remembrances of a young French woman

by Sha’Tara

The resurgence of Fascism, or Neo Nazism is not something I could easily ignore. This past life piece of an autobiography will explain why that is such an important issue for me. At least that’s what I mean to happen. I have to put heavy restraints on my feelings in order to get this written in some proper chronology. The following is difficult, and painful, to recall and to recount here, even now, at this time and in this life.

Let me take you back to those years of which so much history, so many stories and movies have been written and made, beginning in 1940, and for me, ending in 1943.

In 1940 I was living in eastern France, on the border with Belgium near Mont St. Martin. I was 23 years old, married to a heavy set, tall, abusive drunkard and had no children. My name was Helene Matthieu, nee DuPre. For me the draft had been a God-send as it had taken Henri away from me. What happened to him subsequent to his going to war against Germany I cannot say. I never saw him again, nor heard from him. It may sound callous but I never regretted his disappearance. But then as you will read, those were strange times.

Suddenly though not unexpectedly my small world was invaded by the Germans. I was out on the street of our town to watch the Panzers rolling through, as were just about everybody else in town. The pretty girls were noticed, as I was. Before I knew it I had made the acquaintance of some very handsome, gorgeous German soldiers. One thing to another and I was introduced to the general staff, and promised that I’d be in Paris within the month. I had nothing; there were refugees everywhere. The future looked bleak and Paris was a powerful attractant for someone like myself. I needed this event to disappear from Mont St. Martin. How could someone like me have any idea what living under the Wermacht-SS coalition was going to devolve into?

Subsequently, with my Wermacht contacts I did make my way to Paris after the cessation of overt hostilities. It was a breath of fresh air. Full of their superiority and success, the Germans were gallant to a fault though some were pushy – men are men, whatever they wear, whatever language they speak. I didn’t mind, none of the other girls did either or we would have found ways to return where we came from – though I would never call it home. Paris became my home.

My luck kept up with me. I knew how to drive, even recklessly, so I was trained and hired as a driver for the general staff, mostly to run errands, sometimes to deliver messages. Some of those drives took me to areas bordering the Channel – which we call “La Manche” as you probably know. Though the war raged across the Channel and I heard about it, the horror of what the English, especially in London, had to sustain didn’t come down to us. Our news were carefully filtered, you can imagine. Still for me, the rest of 1940 and to the Summer of 1941 were a good year.

Though I could not know it however, my own black clouds were gathering and these good years were to become the sort of good year you experience reading a romance novel, not in a real life.

Things, strange and troubling, were happening around me. My German friends remained friendly but my mood changed. I saw people taken out of their homes, beaten and taken prisoner. They were Jews and those who had harboured them. Then I saw ordinary French people, including women and children, rounded up and summarily shot. My fear and anger grew day by day though I did not show it. I was beginning to think of a way I could help some of these people being taken away. I had passes and access to Wermacht vehicles. And often enough I was sent to the coast where the great defenses against a sea invasion were being built. The vehicles I drove were large with lots of room inside where a couple of people could hide. My passes meant I’d never be searched.

It was late in 1941, early Winter, when a young man with a bicycle was standing near the entrance to the flat I shared with another woman. He watched me as I unlocked the door to enter, then rushed up, grabbed me, pushed me inside and closed the door – so quickly I had no time to even think of screaming. I fell to the floor, he on top of me. He held me in a stranglehold and had one hand on my mouth. “Shhh!” he said and made the throat cutting gesture. I went limp, waiting, petrified, sure he was going to kill me.

Je suis avec la Resistance” he said. That was enough. Already several women who “collaborated” with the Germans had disappeared. We had one chance to remain alive: join the Resistance and work to defeat the Reich. When he allowed me to speak I told him I had already decided to do that. He knew all about me and what I did so he was cautiously relieved. “Je ne voulais pas the couper la gorge, tu es trop belle.” (I didn’t want to slit your throat, you’re too pretty.)

And so began a terrible cat and mouse game. I was able to carry documents to the coast along with a few terrified Jews and Gypsies, mostly children. There were contact points and small boats came in the dead of night under fog to pick up escapees and survivors. I have to say, as memory serves here, that the English people who came thus to help were probably the bravest and most honourable people imaginable. What a contrast with my swaggering “hosts” in Paris. From today, from another life, once again: Thank you, English water folks.

Such serendipity cannot last. Predictably my clandestine operations were discovered. I was stopped, searched, arrested by the SS only three months (give or take) into my new life as a “Resistante.”

I will not, cannot, describe the sort of tortures they did to me. I’ll tell you the rest from a different viewpoint, from this life.

It is common for children to have terribly frightening nightmares. The most common is the kind where you try to run away from someone, or something terrible and you cannot get up to speed. Something always holds you back, forces you to just drag along. I had those, and another kind where I was walking in a gloomy landscape bathed in greenish light. All around me were those gaping round holes. I had to try to escape by walking around them or jumping a cross them over very narrow ledges. Each step threatened death. But as a child I had a third kind of recurring nightmare, one I could not share with anyone, it was just too hellish and I didn’t, couldn’t, understand why I could see such a thing.

In this repetitive nightmare I saw a young woman chained to a cement wall, spreadeagled. She was naked and there was blood on her skin. Her hair was matted and she either screamed, or moaned. The wall was part of a small, squarish cement room and in the middle was a table. There were usually three men in the room. Two were soldiers in uniforms and oh yes, I did recognize those! The third man, quite older, sat at the table and spoke to the woman. If she answered, she was beaten by one of the other two. If she did not answer, she was beaten, sometimes savagely whipped with a sort of belt.

Years passed and I grew up. The usual nightmares stopped, but not this one. It only became more real, with more details as I could now reason why this woman was being tortured and what they were doing to her, including raping her time and again.

In the late eighties, while under the instructions of “The Teachers” as I call them, the one called “El Issa” – a small woman with a keen interest in all the things of earth – asked me about my nightmare. “Do you know yet what that is all about?” I said no, no idea, but it is very personal and poignant. What does it mean?

She said, I waited to tell you because I wanted you to understand the meaning of true forgiveness. Now I will tell you who the woman is and what happened to her. Her name is (not was) Helene Matthieu. You have been looking at a few scenes of your immediate past life, that’s why I say “is” – for you, all these events exist in real time. You are here, but you are there also. And in many other places, as you will now discover with your power to delve into past lives and perhaps if you are diligent, into future lives as well.

I will finish this story for you. The SS tortured you mercilessly because to them you were the ultimate traitor. They had taken you in and you betrayed the hand that fed you. So you had to pay a heavier price, you see? They raped you in that cell and you became pregnant. They watched as you grew, then they systematically beat you until you aborted. They made you watch that dead child. They burned it in front of you. There were more tortures. Eventually they didn’t even want your answers, they’d gotten all they’d get from you and got nowhere. You were and are, a very stubborn individual. They just continued to torture you until late in the Summer of 1943 you finally gave up fighting to stay alive and died. You were then twenty six years old and you joined millions of other young women who died in similar circumstances: the costs of war; collateral damage.

There is much more to this story; this past life remembrance that is so vivid it may as well be of this life. There is the whole aspect of forgiveness which the event was used by El Issa to stamp into my consciousness. I have written about this here and there, and probably will again. But it’s got to be for another time, this is already so long. And as always when I delve into that time, I feel extremely wiped, mind tired. Thank you for reading. I’m not asking that you accept the reality of other lives – that’s a personal awareness.  Sha’Tara, aka, ~burning woman~

19 thoughts on “I Lived and Died, Then

  1. Woebegone but Hopeful

    Do ‘The Teachers’ indicate the Future lives will be optional or inevitable Sha’ Tara?

    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Finally, an easy one to answer, thanks Roger. I never thought of it that way since I live my life in full awareness of eternally continuing lives. I’ve been taught that not all ISSA beings choose continuity. For them, there is a possible optional choice: a fully conscious entity can opt for personal annihilation of the self into the greater mind. For that entity, it’s the ultimate suicide: no coming back, ever. Even that person’s Akashic records are flushed; it will be as if they never existed. (Akasha: personal records of one’s entire existence) (ISSA: Intelligent, Sentient, Self Aware — acronym is a play on word for the Teacher, El Issa)
      (By the way, check your email or Karlyn’s going to show up in your bedroom and light a fire under the bed.)

      1. Woebegone but Hopeful

        E-mail checked thanks Sha’ Tara! Yahoo has been a real pest this week…. Karlyn wouldn’t do that to me, she think’s I’m a ‘funny ol’ man’…apparently I make her laugh….just as well really.
        Anyway thanks for that insight. Relationships with Time always fascinate me. We know there is physical decay or alteration over a passage of recorded ‘Time’, but there are so many other interpretations.
        Sorry for the delay…been floating around the universe a bit the last 36 hrs, checking out inspiration for writing.

      2. Sha'Tara Post author

        Yahoo, oh yes. My WordPress access has totally slowed down lately and as I watched my FireFox browser “explain” I saw a reference to “waiting for Yahoo ads” – in other words Yahoo is loading up everything it can in order to remain alive against Google, and doing it very badly. Yahoo is banned permanently from my computers, tablet and phone!
        On second reading of Patchwork Warriors, I think it’s a good idea to remain on Karlyn’s good side… and Trelli’s!!!
        Trundling about the universe with a big packpack with lots of empty space in it is a great way to collect inspiration. As is sitting under a tree, of course but it’s too late in the season to have an apple fall on your head. If one did it probably would not be a pleasant happening.

      3. Woebegone but Hopeful

        Yeh I’m thinking of dismantling all my contacts with Yahoo. I understand that for a ‘small’ subscription you can have an ad free service…..I guess that makes sense in a commercial sort of way….which I am not wired to.
        I wouldn’t argue with any of the trio! Particularly Medician Beritt, after what the way Lord Ragithyl ended up!

  2. Rosaliene Bacchus

    Thanks for sharing your nightmares of a former life, Sha’Tara. If you haven’t yet read Jodi Picoult’s novel, The Storyteller,” I recommend that you read it. She tells a compelling story of the emotional cost of forgiveness that has remained with me a month after reading her novel.

    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Thanks for that Rosaliene. I checked out some info on Ms Picoult. She seems to be a credible writer who puts a lot of research in her work. I will look for her book (anywhere but on Amazon!). Probably will be at our popular book place in town here, “The Bookman”. Meanwhile, and not fictional, I do have my own story of forgiveness, a story that took many months to unravel and resulted in my understanding of the true purpose of forgiveness. Without it we as pseudo-humans can never evolve spiritually or mentally into a place of compassion. Forgiveness, and it has to be unconditional, is the beginning, the great and most difficult first step to a meaningful, and permanent, state of spiritual evolution. Unconditional forgiveness is the place you never have to fear falling from. It changes the heart – wrings it out, hangs it out to dry, then refills it. That story, I think, will be my next post.

    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Thank you for reading it, George. I realize it’s somewhat “pedantic” but one has to make a case and details seem necessary. I was able to leave a lot of detail out of it. I could re-write it with all the stuff I remember and come up with the world’s most boring piece of pseudo-history, or pseudo-fiction or somewhere in between… but I won’t. The point in telling such stories, unlike in “Memoirs of a Geisha” for example, is to demonstrate some things that were/are/will always be – wrong; things that as intelligent, self-aware sentience we simply need to deal with or… well, there’s a big “or else” at the end of that.

  3. adamspiritualwarrior

    Profound. Thankyou for sharing.
    Horrific and sad beyond words.
    Even all the pseudo stuff you left out. It is still astounding to see how our reality really works of consciousness transference.

    I went for my qhht session yesterday but no past lives revisiting came through.
    Only 2 places I was taken to but I didn’t seem to be in a body, one on train tracks at night, with a big black steam train engine from many years ago that had electric red lights round it, that had stopped.
    The other I seemed to be inside either a church, or masonic lodge. The main walkway was black and white checked squares. It was old stone arches type of ceiling type of place. There seemed to be a red haze of general red light in the ceiling. A red mist light.
    And I couldn’t see any people anywhere, where I thought there were big groups of people, was instead a huge block of black energy, a black mass of energy. However on the main walkway where I was, individual black energy beings were coming towards me then going past me.

    I did have hopes of amazing past life recall and exotic tales but these didn’t happen Maybe its for the best anyway after what you’ve described.

    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Thank you Adam. Interesting what you experienced, so much black, so much red… <> In my world red is pain, black is death. But whose? Obviously not yours since at the end the black entities walked past you… or indeed, you were looking straight into past lives, only not aware, or subconsciously afraid of going in. For me well, when I used to go for healing sessions – healers in training like to use me because I would give them a play-by-play of what I saw through their energies – lots of times it was healing angel type beings, tall, imposing, serious looking and always silent. I remember one session with this particular healer in training and I told her what I was seeing. I think she got angry, never heard from her again. Oops, got company. I’ll pick this up later, thanks! 🙂

    2. Sha'Tara Post author

      I’m back! Sometimes we want something to happen but we have reservations, such as not really believing the stuff is for real and that’s like turning the switch off. Everything new is a dare and there are risks. The astral is no different than here. When I first began these trips into the astral I was scared; I carried so much negative baggage from my religious experiences that I had to translate everything I saw into my religious symbology. Took a while to get past all that, and then it was much easier. Past life, or lives, investigation (NOT regression!) requires focus and purpose. The question “Why?” has to be answered first. Idle curiosity or quest for notoriety will not yield proper results. Such questers are easily fooled and usually are. You know those people who want to “meet up” with gramps or gram? Those who want to find out if/when they were Helen of Troy or Julius Caesar? That’s really stupid stuff. I only observe the past lives that are of value to me in the here and now, and the same for what we call future lives. Why bother with all the other claptrap, or with lives that would only make me despise myself, or lead to depression? I want something of mine that constitutes a lesson in life that I can claim as “been there, done that” sort of thing so I can skip that step, or test, today. Hence the story of Helene Matthieu. That has meaning because, if I ever get part “deux” done, it will explain what true forgiveness entails.

      Your symbology in your qhht (?) session is pretty impressive stuff. I’m sure that a proper interpreter could tell you a lot from that. I can’t, but I’ll say this: it’s consistent, so what I’m thinking is fear, or lack of purpose clouded your vision. You can do better, and you will, because you want to.

    3. Sha'Tara Post author

      One more thing I remembered I was going to say as I was about to close this page: humility. That’s the most powerful energy to use in the astral. We are visitors there; it’s not yet our world and we don’t “own” any piece of it. It’s like a public theatre; rules of conduct apply.

  4. stolzyblog

    That’s a powerful testament. And a forceful destiny you must contend with. Much appreciated!

    I’ve read a couple of other accounts of specifically WW2 past lives ending badly. This makes me consider the millions who’ve not yet developed the benefits/responsibilities of this enhanced perspective, and yet still had lives cut short horribly, and who must labor now with subconscious maladies or various sorts. Or maybe simply with ignorance.

    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Thanks for reading, Robert. Mankind has a long way to go to reach full human potential. Denial of anything “not approved” of the ruling matrix is the species’ problem. Past lives remembrances as opposed to relying in fake history would go a long way to help people change their accepted ways of doing things.

      1. stolzyblog

        Yes, it would have the potential to be a huge watershed. It could eviscerate much fear. Even the inkling that it must have happened, minus the concrete memories as yet, is very helpful.

    2. Sha'Tara Post author

      Replying to the second part of your comment, I have often thought that the many “crazy” sicknesses experienced by today’s generations, particularly the depression and hopelessness stem from violent experiences and deaths in recent major wars. All that violence; the blood, the pain, the fear, the distress, the torn up lives, the senselessness of any war, one must wonder where it all goes. I know it’s not permitted to leave this earth so what does all that accumulated entropy turn into? Pollution, corruption, meaninglessness. It is the poison that is destroying the very civilization that made the wars possible!


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