As my husband and I stood in line waiting to be admitted
to explore the catacombs in Rome, we witnessed a woman being
carried out on a stretcher by two burly guards.
“She passed out,” the guard at the door informed us. “Guess
she is claustrophobic.”
“Does it happen often?” a stout woman that stood in front of us
asked. Seriousness lurked in the shadow of the guard’s eyes as he
looked over the bystanders as if analyzing our reactions.
“Some people just walk in a few feet and turn around and
come out.” He seemed to be enjoying the attention he was receiving
from the crowd. “We stay prepared,” he added, as his expression
stilled for a moment then grew serious.
Our turn finally came. We were with a group of eight tourists
and one guide. Our instructions were to follow him, not to wander
off into other chambers, as he began explaining the history and
systems of the underground passages and rooms used as burial
places.
He informed us that the early Christians excavated most of the
well-known catacombs in the soft tufa rock near Rome during the
200s and 300s. The word catacomb was first used as the name of a
district near Rome where the chapel of Saint Sebastian was loc
The bodies of Saint Peter and Saint Paul are believed to have been
placed for a time in the vaults of this chapel.
The early catacombs had many rooms, connected by long,
narrow halls, or galleries. Usually, these measured about 8 feet high
and 5 feet wide. They branched off in all directions, and formed
a maze of corridors. If more space was needed, a second line of
galleries was sometimes dug beneath the first. The graves were cut
into the walls. Slabs closed some of them.
The Christians often used the catacombs for their funeral
and memorial services. When the Christians were persecuted they
took their refuge there because law protected the catacombs. The
use of catacombs as burial places was discontinued about A.D.
400. Their existence was forgotten for 600 years. When they were
rediscovered, it was supposed at first that they were the ruins of
ancient cities.

We were about 20 minutes in the bowels of the earth when
we entered another small room. This one was different. I suddenly
had difficulty breathing and chills began creeping down my spine. I
turned to my husband and said, “I remember being here. I was 12
years old at the time. My younger sister Margaret and my mother
were also here.” My husband gave me a surprised look as he
looked around to see if anyone was listening. I wanted to continue
explaining as the floodgates of memories surfaced, but the guard
gave me a look that reminded me he was in charge and for me to be
quiet.
I don’t recall another word he was saying as I began my own
interruption of what I was sensing.

We had to hide here because our mother was accused of
being a witch. She was a teacher and taught the children of affluent
officers. She disciplined one of the boys for misbehaving. The kid
became ill and told his parents that my mother was to blame. His
father believed the boy and accused my mother of using witchcraft
on him. She was proclaimed a witch and was summoned to appear
before the tribunal for judging.
A friend of my aunt overheard the conversation that was
discussed by the judging body and immediately came to warn my
mother. That very night my aunt and her friends led us to the
catacombs where we knew that we would be safe. My father and
brothers were off some place building more dwellings for the growing
population and were not aware of what was happening. I remember
that I helped carry supplies to sustain us. Food, candles, clothes,
pads for sleeping and books were towed that night. Everyone
believed that it would be for only a short time. They were mistaken.
We lost all track of time. More people began dying. We spent
many hours clawing into the dirt walls to make space for the ones
that died.
At the beginning of our hiding, my aunt frequently came at
night to bring us supplies. Later my father and brothers came.
There was nothing anyone could do for us. Coming forth meant
being guilty and the punishment would be inhuman. Flogging,
burning, hanging, buried alive sentences would be given, depending
on the judge’s whims. There were nights when no guards were
around the opening. We would go out to get fresh air and visit
briefly with my father, brothers and aunt.
One of the sweets I looked forward to having was *Halvah.
It was one of my favorite treats at that time. I recall watching my
mother make it when we were home and pouring it into a large
square dish. After it set I’d be the one to cut it into square pieces.
I wasn’t afraid to die because the elders told me that it was
an honor to die and that I would go directly to heaven and be with
Jesus. All my friends and family would join me soon.
I know as I stood in that room that I was one of the children
buried behind the wall. I died of malnutrition and collapsed lungs.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered to my husband as I turned
to follow the exit markers.
It’s still a mystery if the impressions I received that day in 1964
were prompted by an overactive imagination or was it a past life
recall? Over the years when my ‘overactive imagination’ kicks in, and
it does quite often, I’m left to decide which of the two it is.
This lifetime I had the following experience that, too, has no
logical explanation. I was about three years old when it happened.
At the time I was living in South Dakota with my parents and my
older sister. My aunt came for a visit and brought a tin container
of halvah. When she handed me a square of the sweet, I looked
up and asked, “Why didn’t you wrap it in a leaf?” Later years my
mother told me about the incident, how I insisted that halvah should
be wrapped with a leaf.
Today, when I enjoy a piece of halvah, I still remember it being
wrapped in a leaf. The only impression that continued to surface
is…as a child living on palace property. My father was a tax collector.
I would walk with him to work, which was only a short distance from
where we lived. A woman, evidently a friend of my mother’s, who
lived on the path we took, would occasionally stop to talk to us. She
would give me a piece of the sweet wrapped in a leaf and say, “I
made this special for you.”
With still no method or logical explanation to prove if the two
above experiences are—past lives or vivid imagination—but…two
lifetimes that had halvah I had as a child…makes you wonder.
I personally have found that the profound statement credited
to Lucy, the character in the Classic Peanuts comic strip is as good as
any answer I have come up with to date.

“LIFE GOES ON.” “WHO CARES?” “GET OVER IT!”
SIDE BAR:
*Halvah is a ‘sweetmeat’ made from ground roasted sesame seeds,
honey, egg whites and vanilla. Locally the Whole Food Stores and
even Wal-Mart has the candy on their shelves. The origin of the
recipe is not known. Today there are hundreds of variations from
every country. There are two spellings Halvah and Halva. To learn
more about it, you can find it on the World Wide Web.

Helene Hadsell 2010