Sentimental Sunday

In my dream the other night, I was Jewish and in a concentration camp. It was during World War II. I had a wife whom I loved, though in retrospect she resembled no one I know in real life. At one point we found a way out of the camp, though we were seen during our escape. We darted across a field; the scenery resembled middle America as I recall. To catch up to us, the Germans needed to circle around a river, giving us a bit of time to get away. As we neared a dirt road, we saw their headlights come over the horizon. "Quick," my wife said, pointing at a farm up ahead. I followed her down the gravel driveway, passing several large, red barns with thick, white trim. My wife chose a sort of carport: beige on the outside yet transclucent on the inside. In fact, once inside, it appeared as if the walls were nearly invisible (invisibility marred by a slight, relatively unnoticable glitch comparable to looking through several panes of glass). We saw the German vehicles drive at a mild clip down the road, anxious as life and death over whether they'd (about three) turn down the gravel driveway. They did. Our anxiety turned to whether they'd stop at the first barn, the second, the third. But, maintaining their clip, they stopped outside the carport. I hugged myself against the wall, hoping that my death would be quick and painless. My wife stood behind a car toward the end. We saw the Germans get out of their vehicles and file lazily into an anteroom just outside our carport. They sat around a large table and appeared to be conversing socially as before a communal meal. I decided that this time was the best to escape again. I took my wife's hand and we started walking out of the carport down the gravel road; the rate of our walk was somewhat hurried, but as hopefully not to catch any attention. A man in the anteroom then opened the door and stepped out. He had a large pistol in his hand that I glanced at briefly while walking by. At one point, I paused, turned and faced him.
"Do you know why I'm doing this?" he said. His face was decidedly anglo, but he had dark hair. He looked more like man that worked in a furniture factory than a Nazi. His glasses were thick and fitted to his somewhat pitted face. He looked me in the eye with his brown eyes. I was sure we were dead. Then, he pointed his pistol at the Germans in the anteroom and started shooting them in the head. He kept on saying: "Do you know why I'm doing this?"
I jumped in front of my wife, prepared to take some bullets in the back. I whispered to her: "Please run," and we ran up around the house and through a field, after which the dream ended.