"the Revolution Came From the People.

By JAMES O. JACKSON

"Hello, boys," cries Ursula Schubert, 39, waving to a pair of green- uniformed border guards in Posseck, East Germany. Without bothering to show a passport or other identification, Schubert, with two of her children in tow, strolls past the smiling guards and across a blacktop that covers part of what was once the "death zone" between the two Germanys. "I'm off to pick up the newspapers," she explains, gesturing toward the West German border post 200 yards away.

There are few formalities at the Posseck crossing these days. Traveling from East to West has become so commonplace that nobody, not even the border guards, pays much attention. Yet as recently as a year ago, entering that stretch of plowed frontier was an offense that could bring death. Until last year the East German guards, today pleasant and unarmed, carried automatic weapons and had orders to shoot anyone trying to escape to the West. Until the mid-1980s there were mines and trip-wire-triggered automatic guns, and even now the zone may not be entirely safe. "Stay on the footpath," Schubert warns her youngest son, Christian, 3. "We don't know if they took away all the mines."

The Posseck crossing is one of 73 holes hacked into the 858-mile-long East- West German border since Nov. 9, when East Germany granted its citizens unrestricted travel rights. Schubert's daily chore is to pick up 25 copies of the Frankenpost, a newspaper published in Hof, a sizable town on the West German side. She is unaware of and untroubled by the fact that politicians in Bonn and Berlin have yet to agree on terms for the distribution of West German newspapers, which have been banned in East Germany for the past three decades. "Frankenpost has a special edition for us, with advertisements for clothes and such," she says. "The West German border police bring the papers along, and I pass them out in the village. Sometimes it's hard to believe this is happening."

Yet it is happening. In a thousand ways large and small, the two Germanys are being united. Not by law, not by treaty, not by politicians: what is happening is happening from the bottom up. Silence and suspicion have been replaced by traffic jams and love affairs. While the allies talk of treaty commitments and politicians dither over the touchy issue of unification, Germans East and West are playing soccer together, going shopping together, drinking beer together, dancing together and, oddly, breeding rabbits together. "Don't laugh," says Arnold Friedrich, the mayor of Modlareuth, a divided border town near Hof. "There are rabbit strains over there that have developed separately, and rabbit breeders are eager to get them. There are government rules on sending animals across. So naturally, smuggling rabbits is very active."

Farther north, in Wolfsburg, where the giant Volkswagen factory turns out 4,000 cars each working day, Mayor Werner Schlimme reels off half a dozen other examples of spontaneous East-West contacts that have occurred since the Iron Curtain lifted. "One day in November, a couple of garbage men from Klotze came over and saw one of our municipal garbage trucks at work," he says. "They thought it was wonderful how it lifted the cans and emptied them automatically." Garbage men from the two sides, separated by politics and technology but united in language, began talking trash. The West German workers, inspired, suggested to their superiors that Wolfsburg give one of its old trucks to Klotze. The city did. Observes Schlimme: "There is no better way for reunification to happen than for the people to do it instead of the governments. The revolution over there came from the people. It is they who will bring our nation together."

A similar situation occurred in the border town of Zicherie, 15 miles north of Wolfsburg. The local volunteer fire department voted to give an old rescue van to Jahrstedt, a small East German farm center just 1 1/2 miles away via a newly opened border post. But the transfer bogged down in government red tape, and the van sits idle in a garage in the West. Still, the offer led to discussions among the fire fighters. Within two weeks the fire departments met over steins of beer and plates of wurst for professional talk. At present they are working out disaster plans and communications problems.

Less formally, new friendships are sprouting, and old ones, long in forced abeyance, are being renewed. "I went to my family's old farm for the first time in 32 years," says Adolf Matthies, the former mayor of Zicherie. "It's part of a collective farm now, and I don't know anybody there anymore. But the people who lived in our old house were very kind to me. We had a meal together. I always believed that this terrible border would open and that our nation would be together again."

Near Matthies' home lies a memorial stone engraved with the words DEUTSCHLAND IST UNTEILBAR (Germany is indivisible), placed there three decades ago by a private organization. Yet Zicherie and the East German town of Bockwitz, just across the double fence, were divided for 32 years. In the old days, getting from Zicherie to Bockwitz entailed a drive of 120 miles and special permission, rarely given, to enter the border zone. Few took the trouble. On Nov. 14 East German workers cut the wire, and now hundreds of two- stroke Trabants pour across the line every day, loaded with East German shoppers headed to Wolfsburg to buy cheap clothes or tropical fruit -- or to find "gray market" jobs to pay for their purchases. And, increasingly, Volkswagens and Opels trundle in the other direction as former East Germans head back to visit friends and relatives. Polls indicate that an astounding 47 million of the 61 million West Germans plan to cross the border on visa-free visits during 1990.

"Can you believe it? We ran away four days before the border opened," says Birgit Zittlau, 26, stopping in Bockwitz with her husband Bernd, 27, to chat with an old school chum, Ulrike Bromann. "We didn't know if we'd ever see our friends again. Now we come over once a week." Bromann says she was shocked and saddened when the Zittlaus fled: "I thought they were gone forever, but here they are." A divorced mother of three, Bromann says she would never contemplate leaving East Germany for the West, adding optimistically, "Anyway, the standard of living over here will be the same within five years."

The Zittlaus have prospered since they left. Bernd found a job as an electrician in Tulau, a farm village near the border. The family moved into a modest apartment, made a down payment on a 1979 VW and began a new life only two miles from their old one in the East. "We'll never come back here to live," he says. "But we can visit whenever we want. Everything is normal now."

Not every resettler has found it that easy. At least 125,000 newly arrived East Germans are still jobless, and West German officials hope the shortage of work will prevent a further rush from the East. More than 58,000 East Germans crossed over permanently during January alone, and by some estimates 3 million are ready to flee westward if general elections scheduled for March 18 fail to produce a government capable of reforming the economy and restoring stability.

"Everything depends on democratization," says Wolfsburg Mayor Schlimme. "People have to see that they have a future over there. Otherwise, they will come over here to find it. And no businesses from here will take risks in the East unless they have the security of a reliable democracy." Nevertheless, Schlimme is enthusiastic about the prospect of Wolfsburg as an economic magnet drawing on resources stretching from Hannover in the West to Magdeburg in the East. "VW employs 65,000 people and draws them from a radius of 60 miles," he says, sketching a 60-mile semicircle cut off by the East German border. He then completes the circle, taking in Magdeburg, only 40 miles away across the border. "Why not draw workers from here as well? And why not have workers from Wolfsburg go to factories in Magdeburg?"

Volkswagen, in fact, has already made a large commitment in East Germany. A development company financed by VW is planning a plant in Karl-Marx-Stadt to produce an East German-designed replacement for the beloved but outmoded Trabant. "With our help they can do it," says VW spokesman Ortwin Witzel. "They have excellent workers and fine engineers. They just haven't had a chance to show the world what they can do."

In Posseck something else is happening. Schubert's 17-year-old daughter Yvonne, pretty and blue-eyed, shows up to read the Hof newspaper. She is wearing a Hof-bought T shirt embossed with the word KAMIKAZE and a grinning skull in Day-Glo colors. "The kids from here go over to Hof a lot," she says. "We shop for clothes. We try new cosmetics. We listen to music. We go to clubs. We meet other kids." Youngsters from the West, she says, come back with them to Posseck to play music and dance at the village youth club, once the ballroom of a manor house confiscated from a former aristocrat.

Does she have many Western friends?

"Yes."

A young man?

Blue eyes flutter; a blush rises.

"Yes."

In Posseck, in the Schubert household, unification has already arrived.