Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

(For Part One, see 25 May 2015) The narrow street was crowded with tourists ambling slowly in the sun, licking ice creams, chatting and gazing in shop windows. Harz found it difficult to keep track of the white-haired man. At one point he lost him and realised he must have turned off somewhere. He backtracked, broke into a run, dodged around slow-moving pedestrians and caught sight of his man disappearing up a narrow alleyway. The cobbles were uneven and Harz had to take care with his footing. He slowed and tried to steady his breathing. He wondered why he was chasing this man. He had no idea what he would do if he finally managed to confront him. The alley twisted and turned, the surface changing from cobbles to concrete and even to carpet for one section outside a wine shop. The sun was dazzling when he emerged from the shade of the alley onto the main street, just in time to see the man jumping onto a tram. Harz followed, the doors slamming behind him. He slotted a euro...

Harz stared up at the building on the edge of the ring-road, oblivious to the roar of passing traffic behind him. The street ahead looked like a normal, attractive, old-town avenue, the lime trees in full leaf, people sitting at tables drinking from coffee cups and beer glasses. Harz felt anything but normal.  He was trying to screw up the courage to go through the large wooden doors. The only other time he’d entered the building had been twenty five years ago, under armed escort. They’d been gathering at the church – the Nickolaikirche – for weeks, to speak out freely, a small sanctuary in a city of surveillance. He remembered clearly what they’d been told that evening. If you’re arrested, don’t struggle, don’t be violent, just shout out your name so we know who you are and hold your candle tightly in your two outstretched hands. They’re less likely to attack you if you’re holding a candle. And it had worked. He hadn’t been assaulted. He’d been arrested and taken to th...