That event was a formative experience in my life, and it is interesting that it happened at the age of thirteen. The number thirteen is believed to be the number of change. To numerologists and tarot readers, it is a number of transformation. It calls for a study of one’s basic principles, what one believes in. It attracts changes in the way a person defines everything in her life, which leads to shifts in her worldview and her existence. I had certainly been transformed by my first regression.
Many years later, the story of the lifetime that I had experienced as a child developed even further at a workshop at Omega Institute led by Brian. During one of the group regressions, an image of a long road lined with birch trees began emerging in my mind. I saw myself as a young woman walking down a quiet dirt road in the country. In my hand I carried a small suitcase, and on my head I had a kerchief. I was leaving my village to move to St. Petersburg to study medicine. The final stop I made on my way was to go to the cemetery, where I paid my respects at the graves of my dead relatives. My heart was heavy. It would be many years before I could return back home—if at all.
While studying at the university, I was recruited by the secret service of the Soviet Union. There were troubles brewing in Europe, and there were even talks of a possible war. They sent me to Europe to spy for my country.
I was a very attractive woman who knew how to use her charm, and it was easy for me to gather information. I saw a vivid scene of me sitting in front of a small device that I was using to send coded wires with the information I collected.
There was a nightclub establishment frequented by many Americans. I found myself going there as often as I could, hoping to meet a particular man I had come to know. I was surprised to discover within me that I was interested in him not because of my work but because I was falling in love with him. He was in love with me, too.
The next scene unfolded on a large set of stairs in front of a big administrative building. I had received orders to move to a different location in Europe, so I had come to say good-bye. The man stood in front of me, telling me that he loved me, begging me not to leave, and asking me to marry him. Even though I loved him very much, I could not stay. I had already given my word and pledged my life, my love, and my heart to my country. I assured him that when he went back home to the family farm in America he would marry a nice woman, have children, and be happy. I said good-bye and, with tears in my eyes, rushed down the stairs toward the car that was waiting for me.
Later, I married an important German officer. It greatly facilitated my work and protected me. World War II had already begun. I had been practicing medicine, mostly treating German military men, and had received orders to terminate a high-ranking German general whom I was treating for an illness. I saw myself standing in front of a table. Next to me, sitting on a chair, was the general. There was a glass of water on the table. I held a small container with powder in it and looked up toward the ceiling, feeling anxiety within me for what I was about to do. Yet, thinking that there was no other choice, I poured the powder in the glass. Instead of giving the general his medication, I had given him poison.
This is where my first regression as a child fits in. I saw myself, again, running down that hallway and eventually getting caught. But this time, because I was much older and better able to handle the whole story, I saw the gruesome details of the interrogations to which I was subjected. Did I betray my network? No. Until the very end, I maintained that I had acted alone. I was beaten, tortured, questioned, and then many more times all over again beaten, tortured, and questioned. The only thing that my interrogators spared me from was rape. They felt that I had belonged to one of them, and that was a line they could not cross. At the end, they placed me on an electric chair and executed me.
As my spirit was rising above the scene, I knew that the lesson of that lifetime was a lesson of love, of needing to approach every situation with love and of allowing myself to be loved too. That whole lifetime had been orchestrated so that I could have the opportunity to choose love when standing on those stairs as the American man asked me to marry him. Yet I chose to stay true to my promise to serve my country. I also knew that after I left, he felt that he had nothing to live for; my leaving had broken his spirit. He died in a dirt ditch, having been shot right in the forehead during combat with the German army.
In the hours that followed this experience, I was shaken to my core and filled with an enormous sense of regret for having wasted one whole lifetime and for having harmed another person. But knowing that we are eternal, I also know that every lifetime enriches our souls with invaluable lessons.
My soul must have chosen to experience and learn the lesson of profound love in my current lifetime, because nothing gives me a greater sense of meaning and fulfillment than bringing love, light, and inspiration to people. One of the ways I most enjoy assisting people is by helping them to experience their past lives and gain understanding about the people and the circumstances that surround them. I am also in a very loving relationship with a man who, coincidentally, has two very deep-seated and irrational fears: the first, a fear of ever losing me; and the second of being shot point-blank in the forehead. It makes me wonder: Is this my second chance at love with the American man I once knew? —Mira Kelley