Otto the Stamp Dealer - although to everyone but himself, he was Baron Hugo von Detner, the German consul and (while not everyone was aware) the Nazi - briskly walked down the street, his head tucked low between his shoulders and his arms plunged deep into his pocket as rain battered his chilled form, the dark streets mostly empty of people as everyone sought shelter from the downpour. His brother's coat - the clothing of a dead man - was wrapped tightly around his form, but it did little to prevent the chill from seeping deep into his bones.
Turning to cut through an alley that led to his home - he had used to go through alleyways that led to the safety of his shop, but ever since his brother had come to the States his shop had been anything but - Otto noted a group of teenagers lingering in the shadows cast by a roof overhang that protected them from the rain, the familiar glow of cigarettes cast onto the grimy alley wall. They were engrossed in a conversation that was held at too low of a volume for Otto to discern, their features cast in shadows and the group huddled close together in a pack.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Otto spoke up as he approached them, ready to reach the privacy of his home (of his brother's home, really), to be able to drop the act he had been living whenever he stepped outside, "I'm just passing through."
"Wait a moment," as the group turned to face him one of the boys, his arms crossed across his chest as he leisurely leaned against the alley wall, spoke up as Otto attempted to pass him, "your accent. Is it German?"
While still discernable, Otto's time in the states (and his interest in being separated from his brother and the action of his home country) having helped him to mostly conceal his German roots when it came to his accent. But as Baron Hugo von Detner, he forced his German accent to be strong, his brother's sharp German accent that was as clear as day falling naturally from his tounge as he kept up the charade of being his deceased brother.
"Yes," Otto nodded, "I am Baron Hugo von Detner, a German consul. I haven't been in the States long."
Despite how often he did it, introducing himself with the name of his dead brother still left a bitter taste in his mouth, a spike of nausea rearing its head in his stomach.
He missed being Otto.
"So you are German then," the boy narrowed his eyes, uncrossing his arms as he stepped forward, "well, we don't like German's here."
We don't like Nazis here, is what went unspoken, but everyone in the alley understood it well.
And while they didn't know it, Otto fully agreed with them.
"Oh, I assure you there's been a misunderstanding," Otto rose his hands in a placating motion, hoping he could calm the situation enough to slip away before anything physical happened, "I am not the... type of German you seem to think I am. I am simply a consul, here to represent my countries interests here in the States."
"That's a likely story," the boy snorted, before motioning to his fellow teenagers, "c'mon boys, let's teach him a lesson about what happens to German's here."
As the group advanced on him Otto cursed and moved to dart to the mouth of the alley, to hopefully escape, but he was quickly pulled back and thrown to the ground, the boys surrounding him and throwing mighty punches and kicks into his side as they threw vicious words of vitriol. Otto could do nothing but curl up as much as possible, trying to protect his head from any strikes as the teenagers took out their rage and frustration on what they thought was a Nazi - and while Otto was not ecstatic about the situation, he honestly couldn't blame them.
With a well-placed punch from a boy in a ratty jacket, Otto's nose cracked and his vision flashed white before filling with black spots as blood spurted onto the street below him, agonizing pain consuming his world as he cried out. His cry echoed through the empty streets, along with the jeers and mocking laughter of the teenagers above him. After some time - whether minutes or hours, Otto could not say - the lead boy raised his hand, the rest of the group pausing in their vicious beating of Otto for a moment. Otto let himself lie prone on the cold and wet alleyway, every part of his abused body aching and throbbing with pain.
"That'll teach you what we do to Nazis around here," the lead boy announced, finishing by spitting onto Otto, the saliva dripping down the collapsed man's cheek, "come on boys, let's get out of here," following him, the group filtered out of the alley, more spit ending up on Otto's face and a few of the teenagers giving a final kick to his sore and aching midsection as they passed. As blood splattered from his nose (which was almost certainly broken) and onto the wet pavement, mixing with the rain and seeping into the cracks, a part of Otto felt as if he deserved this. Or, rather, Baron Hugo von Detner deserved this. His brother, his twin, was dead - but to the world it was Otto who was dead. To the world it was the Nazi that lived, not the Nazi that was dead.
He wouldn't deny that the teenagers were justified, that he would do the exact same thing if he had been in the teenagers positions - he had killed Baron Hugo von Detner himself, after all.
As he moved to push himself to his feet Otto's body made its injuries well known, his clothing soaked with blood and rain and his skin almost certainly beginning to develop ugly bruises that would bare the evidence of what had been done to him for weeks. Otto had to support himself against the wall of the alley as he stood, his bloodied fingers leaving the imprint of his hand behind as they pressed into the brick, and wrapped an arm around his midsection as he continued to make his way home, leaving the alley significantly more sore than he had entered.