I was a prisoner of war(?) in Germany. The prison was run rather like a semi-strict dormitory. There were rules, but no visible atrocities. Most of the staff left us alone. Most of us were young, just older than kids. The prison was a long, rambling, low chateau. My dad came to visit. We went thru the cafeteria line together and he bought me some extra desserts for like a nickel apiece. I went to grab some extra bacon, and no-one would have noticed, except dad spoke up and asked how much it cost. I wondered why he had done that. Being held prisoner unjustly, I felt, was enough cause for me to take whatever I could get. They owed me. I sampled some chicken; when I remarked how delicious it was, the cafeteria lady, thickly German, smiling, said, We treat you good here. I was like, well yeah, but.... I went outside with Dad, slightly surprised that no-one questioned us. We had to avoid a bunch of dog poop; he stepped in some. It was night; there was an orange-ish sideways light cutting thru the blades of grass. We talked about how it seemed as though it would be so easy to just leave, just walk away, and yet there was this overhanging feeling that if you did, something would happen. Dad said, yeah, thats the [?] technique -- the word he used was something like psychological but different, muffled. It implied a combination of fear of the unknown outside, and keeping us content inside. [Later] I was back inside. There was one stern, lean, middle-aged lady with up blonde hair who was more suspicious than the rest of the staff or residents (well-to-do German families lived in this same building with their gentile, slightly prissy kids). She would always question us in the halls, making us nervous. I passed her, had to make up some excuse or change my path to diffuse her attention. [Later] I was with a bunkmate, in the family room of one of the well-off German families. I guess they didnt realize we were prisoners. We were playing on the rug, sort of with their kid, a young adolescent boy. He came over to me and said, Youre [Rosemarys], right? I was like, huh? And then he said, Someone lost their revolver, I thought it might be yours. Apparently he was assuming I was one of their class. I said, oh yeah, I think that may be mine. He handed it to me. I slid it into my pocket. After he wandered away, I leaned over to my buddy and whispered, I have a gun! He said, I know. {Later} we planned how we could use it to escape. We knew we couldnt just blast our way out; that would be folly. Instead we decided to wait til the outdoor festival later that evening. Perhaps a way would become clear. The gun felt light? Was it even loaded? Perhaps it wouldnt matter; we could at least use it to bluff. I checked surreptitiously. Though the gun felt as insubstantial as a toy, about half its chambers did in fact have bullets in them. The revolving part (whats that called?) was large; I had about 10 - 12 rounds. I spun it, locked it back in, advanced with my thumb carefully on the hammer til I knew the next pull of the trigger would result in a real shot, and put the thing back in my pocket. On our way back to our room, we passed the stern lady again. My friend acted like a retard, I acted as though I were leading him somewhere for safety. She eyeballed us, but left us alone. [Later] back in our room, we were lounging on our couch/bed. Three barely pubescent girls had sneaked into our room! We all began flirting. I could tell they favored my buddy over me, but I knew something they did not. I dragged him by his ankles over closer to me, and stage-whispered, Remember, you have a girlfriend! Of course, his actual girlfriend was far away in space and some kind of time, but my evil scheme worked. He retreated to a far corner of the couch and moaned, while the girls turned their wiles to me. [Later] it was almost time for the festival. It was still nighttime; it was ALWAYS a moist, breezy autumn night as far as I can remember. How were we going to disappear? My friend cited some geometric principle that had to do with hanging out acceptably close to the farthest person. There another part, a crucial part of the equation, but I cant remember it exactly.