I read it in this morning's Globe & Mail, the story of POWs assigned to a minimum security camp in the boreal forest of Manitoba. No one bothers to escape, but the POWs slip away at night through the bush to town dances a few miles away. There it is--love, music, chorus of characters, subtext, humour, passions, journey, landscape. One of the POWs meets someone in town. A fraught relationship ensues. Community prejudices activate; time and world events intervene; individual passions prevail, or not. There's a stand-off, a burial, an ultimate celebration (not necessarily in that order . . .).
Oh yes, one of them gets the idea to order watches from the Eaton's catalogue, out of which they make the compasses they need to find their way through the bush to town.