Every year, millions of people struggle to reach Europe in search of better living standards. Their reasons differ, but their purpose is the same. Some set out after years of war in their homelands—conflicts that show no sign of ending. At that point, after losing loved ones to bombs or bullets, after the living have exhausted their last reserves of vitality, what difference would peace make if it finally arrived?

Cities reduced to rubble would need rebuilding; factories, trade routes, and markets destroyed. But beyond infrastructure, how could a population fractured and radicalized against itself suddenly gather again beneath the roof called “nation”? Those who fled bore the evidence of that devastation in their torn clothes and exhausted posture, worn down by years of conflict, misery, and poverty.

Another group fled for the same reason: war. But in their case, even after the fighting stopped, nothing changed. Despite Uncle Sam’s proclamations, neither democracy nor justice arrived. What came instead was chaos, uncertainty, and relentless ethnic and religious power struggles.

Others fled for a reason they still could not understand: How could a government justify its tyranny by invoking the name of the very guide whose teachings were meant to be the sun of compassion on earth? How could the same sacred scripture be twisted into such extreme, violent interpretations? If those religious laws were applied sincerely and correctly, would not the first to face punishment be the very men who seized property by force, turning faith into a spectacle of barbarism? Did they not know what a grave sin it was to declare their own people infidels?

Witnessing such radical, reckless, arbitrary governance, rational people realized how powerless their voices had become. Like many before them, they understood that the only remaining path to preserve their faith was migration—to the lands of their People of the Book brothers. Ages passed, rulers changed, yet the old Central Asian principle remained unchanged: the strong are always “right,” and the weak—even when right—are forced to leave.

The paths of migrants are not only long, but exhausting and perilous. The chance of dying in a sinking boat or a flimsy raft is not small. A single bullet from a border guard can end the journey of hope as they attempt to slip through barbed-wire fences. They set out prepared to freeze to death on the road, or starve. And paying smugglers large sums, only to be cheated, is yet another risk. They may be told they are being taken to Berlin, only to be abandoned in Cairo or Istanbul.

Most travel part of the route on foot and part crammed into a minibus, packed like sardines. Of course, the worst segment of the journey is crossing seas and rivers. After that, passing the towering walls and avoiding patrols without being caught is another obstacle.

Migrants also encounter absurd, tragicomic scenes. Soldiers on one side of the border, fingers on the trigger, shout at them to go back, while soldiers on the other side glare and bark, “Whatever you do, don’t go back.” The helpless migrant is trapped between them. And because his heart is set on reaching the country ahead, he turns his back on the land behind him. With the help of an activist, finding refuge in a migrant camp becomes his biggest dream. If he somehow reaches a country deeper within Europe, and its officials allow him to live outside the camp and grant him the right to work, no one is happier than he. For a moment, he can leave behind his sorrow and disappointment.

Migrants change their routes according to shifts in political attitudes. In recent years, strict measures and deportation policies have made it incredibly difficult to reach countries like Germany, France, and Belgium. The most popular route became a long detour through the Black Sea to Ukraine and Russia, then crossing into Poland. What came next was much less clear. There was the possibility of being trapped on the Poland–Germany border, or slipping to the other side through tunnels—some dating back to the Hitler era, others built later.

Beside the innocent hopes and intentions of migrants, there is also the grim fact that wolves may hide among them, sheep on the outside, concealing treacherous designs beneath white wool. For that reason, those who manage to cross the border, by whatever means, are apprehended by the National Migrant Security Unit (NMSU). Migrants are interrogated, fingerprinted, and checked for any official or intelligence records tied to their names, including whether their countries have issued arrest warrants for them.

The NMSU officers considered every piece of information, but honoring an arrest warrant from a migrant’s home country was almost impossible. Everyone knew that, in those places, there was no such thing as a functional legal system, and armed factions pressured whatever courts existed to issue rulings without fair trial. Put simply—what “law” was there in Afghanistan for anyone to take a red notice seriously?

Maxi’s new post was with the NMSU. Along with other plain-clothes officers, he frequently traveled to the border town where migrants were apprehended. The chief lined up the detained men one by one before them. None of the migrants showed anything suspicious. After a brief evaluation, the chief and the officers decided to send some to the migrant tent camp, releasing the rest with temporary ID cards.

The chief smirked as he turned to the NMSU team.
“Our real work starts now. We’ve got one strange migrant. The man is like a lunatic—doesn’t know what he’s saying or doing. He gives ridiculous answers. And the weirdest part is, there’s no hint of deception in his eyes, his tone, his expressions. Maybe that’s because he’s a professional liar.”

Maxi brushed the air with his hand and replied, “We’ve seen all kinds.”

The man brought before them was short, dark-skinned, curly-haired. From his build, Maxi guessed Afghan or South Asian. Middle Eastern men were usually taller, with flatter cheekbones—and they carried themselves with a certain outward confidence.

One half of Maxi’s experience told him this was a mentally unstable drifter. The other half dragged his mind back to Aros. Who was to say a man like this wouldn’t end up setting off a bomb? Aros wasn’t even a migrant—born and raised in Berlin—and yet look how that ended. The other similarity was unsettling: this man behaved as if something was wrong with his brain. And yet, officers often encountered migrants feigning half-madness, half-helplessness to inspire pity. The staff said it happened every month.

Maxi opened the NMSU’s standard questionnaire for migrants suspected of mental disability and began.

“What is your name?”

The man answered without a heartbeat’s pause.
“Gümüşshol.”

Maxi glanced sideways at the other officers, silently asking, Have you ever heard a name like that? Judging by their wrinkled noses, they were thinking the same thing: what kind of name was that supposed to be?

“Surname?” Maxi continued.

“Leheb.”

That, at least, was something. Gümüşshol hinted at foreign roots masked by a German shell. But Leheb—that surname confirmed with certainty some kind of Asian origin.

“Where do you live?”

“Easter.”

Maxi was sure of one thing: there was no place called Easter in Germany. Not a village, not a district, not a neighborhood. Still, he didn’t break rhythm.

“When were you born?”

“At the rally.”

Maxi zoomed his gaze onto the man’s facial muscles. The man who claimed his surname was Leheb showed no tremor in his hair, no twitch beneath his eyes. Indicators, perhaps, that he wasn’t lying—or at least not acting insane. But Maxi couldn’t be certain. A “rally” was not a valid date in any system.

Procedure demanded neutrality, so he kept going.

“What is your citizenship ID number?”

He waited keenly for this answer. If the man was a German citizen, the ID number would unlock everything—background, address, medical history. And if he was German, entering the country like this suggested danger: a hidden note, a weapon, maybe a bomb.

 “3 2 3 6 7 1 8 8 1 3”

Maxi wrote the number down, but something was off; the man had given 10 digits, while ID numbers were supposed to contain 11.

“Can you give us the phone number of someone who knows you?”

“13 21 18 16 8 25.”

Again, Maxi noticed an anomaly. In Germany, as in many other countries, phone numbers were typically 10 digits long. The experienced officer saw no physiological change in the man. A liar’s blood pressure rises, pulse accelerates, the face flushes. None of that was happening.

Unless the man was a professional liar.

“How can we reach your family?”

“By burning.”

Previous answers could still be explained away as faulty memory, confusion, trauma, or neurological damage. But this last answer had no connection to the question. It sounded like a line from a deranged poet. Perhaps he meant it metaphorically—perhaps his family had died in a fire.

Maxi let the thought sit in the back of his mind.

“Are you afraid of something?”

“The message.”

What kind of message could frighten someone like this? A death threat? An order? Maxi longed to dig deeper, but protocol was strict: off-script questions could agitate unstable subjects and provoke violence.

“Are you Muslim? If not, what faith do you follow?”

“My partner.”

Maxi interpreted that as a claim of standing at equal distance from all beliefs. The assessment form required testing the sense of ownership, so Maxi pointed to the watch on the man’s wrist and asked:

“Whose is this?”

“The Messiah’s. Or maybe my angel’s.”

If by “Messiah” he meant the divine figure, the delusion bordered on religious mania. But Messiah could also be someone’s name.

“What do you do for work?”

“Second floor, plus.”

Maxi considered the possibility that the man was experiencing memory loss, perhaps confusing his workplace with the floor number of an office building.

“Where do you work?”

“Preacher.”

Hearing that, Maxi instinctively thought of churches, mosques, and religious spaces. He briefly considered investigating local congregations, but the memory of the Aros case was still fresh. Extra initiative had cost him his last post; another overreach could lead to another exile. He decided against it.

After escorting the man out of the room, Maxi glanced at the commissioner and the other officers.

“I don’t have much to add. My impression is that he isn’t lying. His answers seem connected to some kind of head trauma.”

Then he asked the commissioner:

“How did you find him?”

“Just outside town, very close to the border—starving and dehydrated. Yesterday, we caught a group of migrants. He probably crossed the tunnel with them, then they dumped him somewhere because they thought he was crazy.”

“You didn’t locate the tunnel?”

“Same old trick used by the smuggling mafia. They blindfold the migrants so tightly they can’t see a thing. Just in case someone gets caught and talks later. Once they’re out of the tunnel and somewhere near town, the blindfolds come off. That’s why we can never trace the exit.”

“They’re probably coming up through someone’s basement.”

Maxi pushed back his chair and waved his hand dismissively.

“Forget the tunnel. What are we going to do with this guy? That’s what we need to settle.”

The commissioner laughed, then shrugged.

“You must be new to this unit,” he said, and continued.

“Do what you always do with every mentally unstable refugee—take him to the Berlin Forensic Medicine Institute. After a thorough examination, their report will tell you whether he belongs in a psychiatric ward or back in a refugee camp.”

“You’re right. And we can determine if there’s any record that matches his fingerprints. Who knows, maybe our man has a deep history,”

Maxi replied, trying to recover the situation. To dispel any impression of being inexperienced, he added,
“And we’ll hook him up to a lie detector there.”

In truth, Maxi had no intention of taking the man to the forensic institute. His plan was to drop him off at a nearby psychiatric clinic and hand him over to local police before moving on.

But the commissioner’s obnoxious laughter aside, something else unsettled him: the refugee was staring at him, smiling—a sly, deliberate smile.

A smile that seemed to say, “Arrest me.”

Even if the man was insane, Maxi couldn’t ignore a grin like that.

After all, the man was asking for it.