Foreign Correspondents: The Tiny World of Anthony Grey

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Outside the high, grim wall that surrounds the house, hawkers shout, traffic rumbles and pedestrians chatter. Inside the wall, no one speaks to Anthony Grey, Reuters' man in Peking. Grey is confined to a 12-ft.-square whitewashed room, whose window is partially boarded up. Through the window, he can see the wall, and he can catch only a glimpse of a tiny courtyard and—again—the wall. The door of his room stands open, so. that the ever-present guard at the gate can see him at all times. For five months of the year, the room is chilled by icy winds that blow down on Peking from Siberia. For another five months, fanless, Grey swelters under heat and humidity blown in from the Pacific. And always, the guard just stares, never speaks.

British-born, Grey, 30, has been living in a void for 17 months, though he has been charged with no crime. He was confined to his Peking quarters in July 1967, in retaliation for the jailing of eight left-wing journalists for violating emergency regulations during last year's riots in Hong Kong. The Chinese, who once hinted that Grey would be released when the eight journalists were freed (they have been), now insist that 13 others seized since Grey's confinement must also be turned loose. Hong Kong authorities refuse to play the blackmail game.

Chinese Torture. Grey, a rugged but wiry six-footer, has become tense and pale under this peculiar form of Chinese torture. At the second of two 20 minute visits that British diplomats have been allowed to pay him in 17 months, he complained of chest pains, reported that a Communist doctor conceded that he may have bronchitis—but would not do much about it. Guards deliver the People's Daily even though Grey cannot read Chinese. He grows weary of the Peking Review, an English-language Maoist propaganda magazine. He has a library in his upstairs quarters, but is not allowed to go there; if he wants a book, he must request it by exact title, word for word. He is tormented by the fact that he has forgotten the names of most of his books.

Grey's only regular contact with reality is the one letter he can send each month to his mother, who lives in Norwich, England, or to his girl friend, Shirley McGuinn, who lives in London. He desperately awaits their return letters. He can see the mail arrive in the court yard, but he must then wait for the guard to deliver it, usually in a batch, days later. His own letters, guarded and understated, convey the agony of isolation. "You often say you hope I am keeping cheerful," he recently wrote his mother. "It would be quite dishonest to say I was cheerful. After more than a year in one room, it simply is not possible. Somehow, God knows how, one manages to endure it, that's all."